


That Century No One Ever Liked (except maybe the Four Horsemen with That Hatted Fellow and the Dukes of Hell)

by thelurkingpanda



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: (there are times I can't tell), 14th Century - Freeform, Actually they need to hug each other, Angst, Author tries to be funny (hopefully doesn't miserably fails), Aziraphale Needs A Hug, BH help me sell this fic, Banter, Black Hat & Crowley, Black Hat (Villainous) & God (Good Omens), Canon Compliant (as far as I know), Character-centric Narration, Crowley & Plants (Good Omens), Crowley needs a hug, Dagon (Good Omens) - Freeform, Distrust, Doubt, Doubtful Aziraphale, Embarrassing Aziraphale, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Footnotes, Gabriel (Good Omens) - mentioned, God (Good Omens) - Freeform, Hastur (Good Omens) - mentioned, High Possibility of Historical Inaccuracies, How Do I Tag, How can I sell it even more?, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Internal Turmoil, Ligur (Good Omens) - mentioned, Lots of Footnotes, M/M, Michael (Good Omens) - Mentioned, Missing Scenes, Mix of ic and ooc, Mutual Pining, Pre-Fall (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Somewhat Blasphemous (please forgive me), Understanding Crowley, Will add more tags as I go, but I did try researching, cross-over, here and there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-05-12 06:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19223101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelurkingpanda/pseuds/thelurkingpanda
Summary: No one liked the 14th Century because of obvious reasons, and some liked it for the very same obvious reasons. But, Crowley and Aziraphale disliked it because of at least two more reasons. The effects linger, even after a few hours after the Apocalypse that wasn't.ORHow the 14th Century sucks and how BH rears his ugly head since time immemorial.___________I've included an intro chapter for those who are unfamiliar with either series~ Discovering new things is part of the fun, right?(First listed chapter is the intro)Chapter Index (in case anyone who has dived in yet are still in doubt):Chap 1: Good Omens | Aziraphale-centricChap 2: Good Omens and Villainous | Crowley-centric & Pre-Fall FlashbackChap 3: Good Omens | Aziraphale and CrowleyChap 4: Good Omens and Villainous | Pre-Fall Flashback & Aziraphale and Crowley





	1. Introductions

Hello, dear readers!

Welcome to my self-indulgent fic that crosses over the worlds of Good Omens and Villainous. It's been years since I've written anything. It's my first time here in AO3 and first time writing for these fandoms (hope I do alright).

 

Since we're here to have fun, I figured that there's no harm in diving into new ventures. (But always remember that this is fiction and none of this should be taken literally.)

 

Before I begin introducing the series/fandoms themselves, let me go a bit on how this came into existence. If you don't want to read my rambling, click here  1 

 

Some time ago, I learned about Good Omen's miniseries coming out on May 31, and a little later, I learned that Villainous Pilot episode was coming out on June 1 [PST]. I was super hyped about how these series that I love are coming out back-to-back (well, because of time zone differences and all, there was around a day's worth gap in between both releases).

 

Days before Good Omens release, I reread the book (and boy, it was more enjoyable than my go at it~) and thought if it was possible to make a Good Omens and Villainous crossover. (The urge was mostly influenced by the Villainous Countdown Challenge that came out a little over a week before the pilot premiere.)

 

And guess what, I found it highly plausible. One head canon here, a cross reference there, and boom, a loose plot somehow formed. I talked it over with a friend and things got more fleshed out.

 

It's a little late, but hey, a contribution is a contribution.

 

Happy reading!

 

* * *

 

1 Alright, let the introductions begin~

 

**Villainous/Villanos**

 

Villainous is a Mexican cartoon under Cartoon Network Latin America that features The Black Hat Organization (BHO) — set in the Present . It started as a series of 15-sec to 1-min shorts that advertises BHO's services. It then branches out to 11-min "orientation videos" that basically criticizes villains across different Cartoon Network shows.

 

Meaning, it is set in the Cartoon Network Multiverse. And, for all intents and purposes of this fic, the presence the multiverse allows this crossover to exist and be canon-compliant.

 

BHO is a business by villains for villains. It helps villains to become more successful villains. (Lord) Black Hat started the business since he got bored of being an active villain (No hero has ever proved to be a challenge for him). Their slogan is "Evil is our Business, and Business is Good"

 

There are four main characters in the series and a chuck ton of minor characters. The MCs are (Lord) Black Hat, Dr Flug Slys (the ~~overworked~~ brains and all-around guy of BHO), Demencia (the brawn of BHO, has an unhealthy obsession towards) and 5.0.5 (lovable, too good for this world failed experiment, Flug's son, the BHO maid).

 

There is also some interesting lore outside of the shorts and orientation vids and a good place to see them in order is by looking up Nightfurmoon's Tumblr Account (just Google it and you're good to go). The lore adds darkness to the underlying darkness present in the series.

 

For this fic, the crossover happens mostly because of (Lord) Black Hat's appearances (that matter to me XD). Flug will appear somewhere at the end, but it's very minor.

 

Now, who is (Lord) Black Hat?

According to the creator, Alan Ituriel, Black Hat ~~is his son~~ is a being of Evil, Evil incarnate, Evil itself. According to the Samurai Jack Orientation video, he's older than Aku/Accu.

 

The fic will have some parts that is Black Hat-centric will try to explain how I see him.

 

So basically, you just got to know that Black Hat is an Evil Being that was present in every disaster in human history and that he started his business due to boredom. Oh, and he has a cult ( ~~human sacrifices, a summoning circle, the works!)~~

* * *

  **Good Omens**

 

Good Omens is a book-turned miniseries hosted on Amazon Prime (will be aired, later on, in BBC) co-written by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.

 

I feel that any attempt to summarize it by my own words would be lacking, but I'll try.

 

(No, actually, just pick the book up or start the miniseries. You'll miss out on a whole lot of stuff by settling for this explanation, especially since I'll try to make it as spoiler-free as possible. No, you're good? Ok then)

 

The countdown to Armageddon had started after the birth of the Antichrist.

 

It is a story of how the last few days before The End (?) played out. Different forces do their part, as part of the Ineffable Plan, and hope for the best.

The forces:

  1. An angel-demon pair do their best to avert the Apocalypse as it unravels. The angel, Aziraphale, the former Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, a Principality and the demon, Crowley, ~~formerly Crawly,~~ The Serpent of Eden, have known each other since The Beginning. After running into each other one too many times and learning that they had more things in common than their respective sides (Heaven and Hell). They created The Arrangement for convenience and a win-win situation for both sides. (Introducing...the OTP of this fic ~~and probably the whole fandom~~ )
  2. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Death, War, Famine, Pollution (Pestilence retired when penicillin was created)... Their contributions should be self-explained.
  3. A descendant of a witch hunter and a (professional) descendant of a witch work together to do their part in the aversion of the apocalypse. Agnes Nutter (the witch ancestor), published "The Nice and Accurate Book of Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch", which is the only prophetic book that is right on the money every time. There is only one copy in existence in present day. The prophecies, however, are mostly directed at her descendants and can be...hard to interpret.
  4.  Adam (the Antichrist) and the Them (Pepper, Brian and Wensleydale), all 11-yr olds, try to defeat the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Adam's power awakened when he received and named his Dog. He is the cause of the strange phenomena in Tadfield (and later on, the whole world). After getting a better hold of his powers, he and his friends face The Four Horsemen.
  5.  The Witchfinder Army, currently (actually) managed by Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, and Madame Tracy help Aziraphale reach the Antichrist (later on).
  6.  The Chattering Order of St Beryl was in charge of "the baby switch". It is under Hell's orders. Miscommunication had some serious consequences.



 

The book is littered with comical footnotes, which I try to emulate.

 

The franchise (?) is overflowing with Religious and pop culture (well, somewhat dated) references. It's quite the experience and you're in for a ride.

 

General things that you'd need to know before proceeding:

  * The 14th century had been a bad time for Crowley and Aziraphale (referenced 3 times in the book and once in the miniseries).
  * As stated before, franchise pokes at religious stuff, so expect that the fic will do the same (to some extent). It's a sensitive topic, I know, and I find some parts blasphemous as well, so proceed with caution.
  * Aziraphale loves books and collects first editions of any Biblical and Prophetic works he could get his hands on. People think that he 1) British 2) Intelligent and 3) Gayer than a tree full of monkeys on Nitrous Oxide. I'll let ponder on which ones are wrong.
  * Crowley is more in tune with the times than Aziraphale. He's always fashionable and he hates being seen as Nice. He was known to have "Sauntered Vaguely Downward" after hanging with the wrong people (Lucifer and the gang). He knows everything that Aziraphale loves (and uses it to tempt the angel).
  * Crowley and Aziraphale are real close, as in real close, but there are some inner turmoil that make them look like a couple with an "on-again-off-again" relationship. But one thing is certain, they love dining in the Ritz.
  * I'll mix book canon and miniseries canon to suit my taste ( ~~and you can't do anything to stop me muhahaha~~ ) but I'll try working around things to somehow make both work whenever possible.
  * Most of what happens in the fic happens in between scenes. (Can't be canon-divergent if it's not tackled in either sources ;) )
  * (Will add more when I think more notes are needed)



 

Ok, and we're done~

I highly encourage diving into both series as both are a lot of fun!

 

Feel free to ask questions about the fic and I'll respond whenever possible (and as non-spoilery as possible).

 

I don't have most social media accounts (and I've only lurked in the Villainous side of tumblr and twitter).


	2. Chap 1 - Where Aziraphale Find Some Troubling Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there!  
> For those who skipped the intro chapter, this is my first time posting on AO3 and my first time writing for Good Omens and Villainous!  
> It actually took some time to get this up 'cause it's been years since I've learned some basic HTML (getting rusty with my skill, especially with anchors >.<;; ).  
> I wanna thank my two friends who took the time to read and comment on it! (You know who you are) :)
> 
> Anyways, I hope you have fun reading~  
> Comments and Kudos are greatly appreciated!

130X

 

It was a fine day and an even finer night. Nothing could beat good food and drink with great company after a day of manuscript writing and hunting. There has been a craze on borrowing, copying and proofing sectioned parts of old monastic documents in Italian universities these days [1] and being part of the library staff had never felt busier. Aziraphale was just coming home from having been tempted to dinner by Crowley.

 

Earlier, Aziraphale saw the demon near the entrance just as he was closing up. The demon's lower back leant against a column with his arms folded on his chest. A tad bit uncomfortable for his taste, but Crowley was the image of an unflappable gentleman who hadn't been waiting long [2]. The angel put on a cordial smile while greeting said unflappable gentleman and willed, much to his annoyance, the flush creeping up his cheeks away (which happily settled on the tips of his ears).

 

With a smooth 'Don't suppose you'd mind me tempting you to some citrus chicken?', Crowley had managed to set his record for "The Fastest Time in Tempting the Angel into Doing Anything with Him" (not that he was keeping tabs, it simply felt as though it were that kind of achievement). The demon mentally cheered and the angel noticed but decided to let it slide with a roll of his eyes. He was in desperate need of a break and the spiced wine the Tempter picked to pair with the Citrus Chicken and Lasagna they had for dinner just hits the spot. The fruits for dessert were absolutely perfect too.

 

Snapping out of his little daydream, he hurriedly climbed up the stone stairs of the guild entrance.  Most of the lamps inside the structure didn't give off that tell-tale glow of being in use, save for the entrance and the lobby, which meant most of the residents were tucked in bed, sleeping soundly. The air was rather chilly and he had no intention of becoming a giant popsicle.

 

He entered the hall, nodded to the guard in charge and made a beeline to the stairs to the right where his quarters were. He made a mental note to bring the poor dear a pastry and a hot cup of ale in the early morning.  Upon reaching the second floor, he was careful to step in the right places, avoiding certain creaky planks of wood. No one wants to have an angry neighbour knocking furiously on their door so early in the morning, complaining about ruining a good night's sleep. Reaching his room, he brought out a key to the slightly rusted keyhole of his room's blue painted door, slowly twisting it until he heard a satisfying click.

 

Aziraphale's room was quaint and was modest in size. It had one operational casement window right beside where his single sized bed pallet was, complete with a pillow and folded sheet. His work table was by the window with one ceiling-high bookshelf and his clothes cabinet, with intricately carved floral design patterns on its edges that he was incredibly fond of, beside it. His other furniture consisted of a two-compartment drawer, and another ceiling-high bookshelf at the edge of the bed where his current collection of rare and religious scrolls and manuscripts reside.

 

Parchment isn't very durable and sunlight and moisture are its notorious enemies. Like any upstanding gentlemen who are used to handling manuscripts, Aziraphale made sure his collection wouldn't be exposed to such enemies.

 

With a swish of a hand, the angel used a minor miracle to light up the lamps in his room and turned to close the door behind him. He took a quick scan of the room to see if there was something amiss, and his eyes gravitated to his work table.

 

"That's...odd," Aziraphale commented as he noticed how organized how the spread of his work table had become.

 

Quickly, as one can fumble with shoe laces, he took off his tan knee-length leather shoes and shuffled to his working desk.

 

"My word, someone broke in and sorted out all of these documents," said Aziraphale in awe as he leafed through the neatly stacked piles of documents with his thumb.

 

It had been a while since he saw the pine underneath the numerous layers of parchment. A small smile graced his lips as he nodded approvingly at this mysterious cleaning faerie's commendable job.

 

That is, until he realized that month's report for Upstairs wasn't in any of the piles. The smile dropped and began to frantically search the work table and the shelf beside it. He took care not to make a mess of the documents and was about to cross the room to look in his collection's bookshelf when he saw a bundle on his perfectly made bed.

 

He winced at the sight of Michael's bold, red-inked calligraphy at the top of the very first page. He gingerly picked up the bundle and wrinkled his nose upon seeing Gabriel's handwriting written in black ink, right below Michael's. A whole page dedicated to his superiors' notes meant trouble. He swallowed as means of preparation before skimming through the first page.

 

"I knew I was forgetting something this morning," Aziraphale sighed, knowing this was going to ruin his night and that there was no one else to blame but himself.

 

Michael, ever the stickler, reprimanded Aziraphale for tardiness of his report, the state of his work table (which she took the liberty of putting in order), and for staying out so late at night (as it was unbecoming for an angel to act this way). Gabriel, on the other hand, wrote a strongly worded note showing his disdain in the Principality's work values. According to the Archangel, it becoming increasingly human and he hope for improvement after having Michael take the Principality's report with her Upstairs.

 

He sat on his bed, his eyebrows furrowing due to the feeling of worry and slight affrontedness. Mostly worry getting ninety points out of a hundred. The rest, he decided after much thought went to confusion and slight affrontment. His job as a stationer did require more effort than he was used to, but he was fairly certain he finished up the report the night prior. While he knew Upstairs advertises punctuality, he felt that it didn't warrant this particular use of language.

 

Was his report so important that its tardiness would attract the ire of his co-workers and have it retrieved without his knowledge beforehand? He hummed with his head tilting to the left and cupped his chin. He couldn't recall anything noteworthy [3] to begin with, and if there were he would have brought it up immediately beforehand. He laid the bundle next to him on the bed and stood, thinking it would be best to slip into his nightwear. He didn't need sleep, of course, but who would turn down the opportunity to get into more comfortable clothes (especially with a long night ahead of him)?  

 

Speaking of comfort, he felt a small ball of unease formed in his stomach. Was...was this Crowley's influence, this line of thinking? He has to admit, he had been seeing more of the demon as of late.

 

The establishment of the Arrangement didn't change the frequency of their meetings too much. Once or twice a century was the status quo. It changed the nature of their meetings, sure but never the frequency (with the exception of pure coincidence and a requested mock battle whenever needed. The need to look good in the eyes of one's superiors was a totally understandable reason to meet, no matter how abrupt [4]). On second thought, those purely coincidental meetings did increase and some even morphed from a quick greeting to a more social outing.

Aziraphale paled once more at the realization that those social outings led to promises to engage in _more_ social outings and playful challenges [5]. He held up his hands and tried to count the number of meetings they had throughout the past decade and gave up when he ran out of fingers. Feeling optimistic, he tried to count their meetings that year.

 

He raised a pinky for that time they, quite literally, bumped into each other in line as they entered Bologna some time in February. He raised a ring finger for that time Crowley swung by the library to give him a pair of spectacles and run off as if he were in a hurry, two months after. His middle-, fore- finger and thumb were raised for the times they had dinner within the current month. His mouth opened in shock and fought the urge to swear, just in time (There was no need to break a particularly good record of maintaining a curse-free manner of speech over this).

 

There was no denying their interactions had indeed increased and he wasn't even aware of that until that moment.

 

He shook his head as he took his nightwear from the  clothes cabinet and wondered what on Earth was happening to him. Was it the weather? Did the weather make him unconsciously seek companionship more often than usual?

 

Aziraphale started removing his layers of clothing, starting from the hose moving upward.

 

Doubting had been one of the bad habits he wanted to rid himself of. It wasn't inherently bad since it inspires curiosity which then inspires innovation and creativity. It troubled him how doubting can lead to perilous Questions. There was Right and then there was Wrong, clear as day. As an angel, he knew and would be compelled to choose what was Right. That was what he believed in.

 

Associating with Crowley broadened his horizons, even when the demon made some tasteless remarks here and there. But, that was fine. He was able to view those jabs as tasteless. He knew where the line was and he was in control. He wouldn't cross it. No matter how much the Crowley took pride in his work, particularly the one with 'making an angel Fall', Downstairs, Aziraphale knew the demon would never throw him something he couldn't handle. He instinctively knew when to stop entertaining such trains of thought, like an automatic defense system.

 

But... What happens when it stops working?

 

A slight shiver ran down his spine and he turned to the mirror as he was about to put on his chemise [6].

 

And then he felt it.

 

The chemise felt tight around the chest area. The area around the underarms felt a little restricted too. He moved his arms in a circular motion to test it further and decided it wasn't too uncomfortable.

 

He stared at the figure the mirror reflected and turned to inspect more of his body. It was a known fact that he had a modest padding of fat all over his corporate form, but he couldn't help noticing how his figure has become softer.

 

This is definitely Crowley's influence. Laidback attitude towards angelic duties, taking slight offence at his superior's attitude towards him and overindulgence in luxuries of the flesh (good food and good drink) are definitely Crowley's influence.

 

Perhaps it was time to put some distance.

 

It shouldn't be so hard as they have endured —hang on, endured? Endured surely isn't the correct term. Waited? No, there are...implications with that one. Experienced? Yes, that sounds more neutral— experienced longer periods of separation.

 

As an angel, a being of Good, he has to regain self-discipline and clear his mind (read: rid himself of worry, especially when faced with a disappointed look and a slight slump in posture on that old serpent's form, and the slight ache in his chest at the thought of losing good company for a couple years. Make that a couple of decades. Oh dear, this is troubli– No, not troubling at all).

 

He caught his reflection sporting quite a somber look and shook his head. He put on the chemise in one quick motion and seated himself comfortably on a chair. Better wipe those thoughts away and start reading those new orders from Upstairs. There is no better way to commit to a more disciplined lifestyle than to read new orders from Upstairs.

 

After putting on a pair of spectacles (compliments of the demon Crowley) and seating himself in front of his work table, the angel dutifully removed the paper binder and set aside his superiors' note before reading his new orders. Halfway through, he reached for the map and began placing markers with strips of paper with the appropriate legends with relation to his notes. Once he was done, he confirmed three things:

 

First, new orders from Upstairs really _do_ translate to travelling and performing miracles along the way, not unlike a travelling circus; second, he would have to find a new stationer as this would be a long, one-way trip; and third, something forebodingly big was afoot and it was best not to dilly-dally.

 

Aziraphale began to tidy up his workspace (there was a tinge of guilt when he noticed he was messing up the work space again, but then he remembered that Michael was the previously mysterious cleaning faerie and all of the guilt vanished into thin air).

 

His motions started slow then they grew more hurried by the minute. He felt giddy, restless energy coursed through his veins. He wanted to tell Crowley. No, no no, he told himself he was going to discipline himself. As an angel, informing his adversary was not the Right thing to do.

 

No more unnecessarily associating with the demon.

 

After scrubbing his work table particularly hard with a rag, it sparkled. Smiling at the job well done, he then started packing his luggage for the journey.

 

It wouldn't hurt to, at least, bid farewell to Crowley, would it?

 

What would he say?

 

 _"Hey there, got some new orders from Upstairs and well, er, I better get going! Ha ha ha"_ The angel visibly cringed.

 

 _"Hi, just dropped by to say I got new orders from Upstairs. Have to get going now, bye!"_ That sounded to hurried and downright suspicious. How does Crowley make a line so smooth-sounding?

 

_"Crowley, I received orders from Above and I think—"_

 

Stop, for one blessed second.

 

This is _exactly_ how he'll start with once he sees the demon. This is exactly what he _shouldn't_ say. He can never shut up around the demon. With worry eating up his core, he'll spill the beans right there and then. Why does Crowley have that effect on him? How could feel such ease being beside The Serpent of Eden?

 

Aziraphale sighed and shook his head for the last time that night. There no way around it. He shouldn't see Crowley until all this is over. As an angel, a Principality, a being of Good, he should know better than that, knew better than to seek comfort from a demon, someone who Fell.

 

* * *

 

 

1 Whether or not Aziraphale had a direct influence in the creation of the Pecia system in Italy is up for debate, but one thing is certain: seeing scrolls here and there he translated from Greek and Arabic at the start of the century as master copies being requested puts a smile on his face.[up]

 

2 Crowley had been there at the same column quarter of an hour before the library was scheduled to close (by sundown), getting buffered by the students and university personnel as they left. The moon had been up when Aziraphale took notice of him. He wanted to kick himself for practicing Patience, but as far as Aziraphale knew, he just got there and that is how it will be remembered from then on. [up]

 

3 Noteworthiness is the same as beauty. It is in the eye of the beholder, and for most angels, Aziraphale's reports are like Sunday paper comics or the Lifestyle section— a source of entertainment. The things humans come up and their innate silliness is a great source of laughter. And, angels have the same temper as old people who are particular in the arrival of their daily paper. [up]

 

4 In front of a cantina somewhere in Sicily...  
**A:** Begone, foul Serpent! Thy efforts in Tempting Men of Cloth are meaningless! *winks*  
**C:** [ _soundless mouthing_ ] What is this, angel?  
**C:** [ _in a loud voice_ ] Angel Aziraphale, here to thwart another scheme of mine?  
**A:** [ _soundless mouthing, eyes gesturing upwards_ ] They're watching, particularly Michael. Sorry!  
**A:** [ _in a loud voice_ ] Prepare thyself to be Smitten to Justice!  
**C:** [ _whispers_ ] Oh, bugger all this!  
**C:** [ _in a loud voice_ ] I'd like to see you try! [up]

 

5 "My dear, surely you are capable of so much more than that," said Aziraphale, turning down the temptation of a good meal under a particularly starry night, in favor of translating the scroll he was handling with so much care. The serpent hissed ("Neeekksssst time for ssssure") and slithered away, plotting. The next time they met (a century later), Crowley delivered, and it was a slippery slope for Aziraphale from there on out. [up]

 

6 Fashion, fickle little thing, dictates that chemises are females' underwear, but compared to the alternative (sleeping naked), he preferred to show modesty even if there was no audience to see it.[ up]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :D
> 
> I've written out the next chap but am still waiting for it to get ~~roasted~~ commented on by a couple of friends.


	3. Chap 2- Where Crowley and a Dark Misty Entity Experience Something Troubling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see a Crowley's side and a bit of the stuff before The War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to post this a bit later on, but it feels like I'm cheating those on the Villainous side with the first chapter (more like intro) being Aziraphale-centric. So here it is, the start of the cross-over~
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's giving this fic a chance~ :)

**130X**

 

Crowley woke up with a start.

 

There was no unholy shrieking or shouting. There was only the sound of heavy breathing, and if one tried to listen more carefully, there was the sound of a bustling city below.

 

Sweat beaded his forehead. His eyelids were straining from keeping his eyeballs intact, they were threateningly close to falling out. No one would believe his pupils were normally long, thin strips, lost in a sea of amber, at how dilated they look at that moment.

 

He wiped his brow with his right hand.

 

Demons didn't have dreams. They didn't get nightmares too. The same applies to angels, they are of the same stock after all [1, 1.1]. But apparently, demons remember in their sleep.

 

Once he caught some unneeded breath, his arm shot out of the covers to retrieve his darkened spectacles and put it on. He threw the covers aside and got himself out of the bed. He stretched his lithe form, taking momentary joy from the way his bones made a cracking sound.

 

With a snap of his fingers, his bed was perfectly made, as if it had never been occupied. Another snap and he was fully clothed. The demon was no Aziraphale who enjoys going through the motions of   painstakingly putting on articles of clothing or other mundane tasks humans do. He was all up for convenience, especially since he has the means to do it.

 

Convenience doesn't necessarily equate to lack of quality, in Crowley's books. The clothes he brought into existence (no, he doessss not perform miraclesss), were made of fine material and were, by default, stylish.

 

Crowley wore a reddish brown velvet supertunic that reached to his hips. The design was bombarded with circling ivies and intertwined serpents [2] embroidered with gold coloured thread. The buttons of his supertunic were made of ivory, polished to gleam like no other. His hose came in two colours, one flame white for his left leg and a bright orange for his right leg. He wore tan, leather pointed boots that went as high as half of his calf.

 

His room was bare and functional. The word "minimalist" hasn't been invented yet, so it would have to do (and its approach as a style, rather than a reflection of social status, was frowned upon). Crowley's furniture consisted of only a wooden bed frame with enough ornamental carvings on the bed posts to be considered luxurious, a full length mirror, a work desk with a matching stool and a three-compartment drawer.

 

His current cover was of a wealthy spice merchant, and as a businessman, it was part of his job description to dress up, which was an incentive for him. This cover did entail some hard work on. He was delighted to discover most of it was socializing. It provided access, although still quite limited, to the upper class and there was a variety of people that came to him. It was a suitable cover for a demon whose bread and butter is Tempting, Igniting Doubt and Enabling Free Will.

 

Life was good. He was doing his job well enough to the point Hastur and Ligur were not around when he reported to head office for his yearly report [3]. He believed he had adjusted to his role of a demon quite well. He was one of the firsts to do so back in the day.

 

Yet, he despises having to remember. Particularly, he despises remembering life before Eden. Eden was an okay memory [4] and was the start of more ple— no, fair memories. He still had roughly an hour until he had to check on how his clerks were faring in managing the shop.

 

He sat on a stool in front of his work table with his legs crossed. He clasped his hands together and brought it to his mouth as he contemplated. A soft hiss escaped from his mouth.

 

The dream itself was a blur of mismatched experiences, jumping between Pre-Fall memories and memories of The Pit.

 

"Nope, can't deal with this while I'm sober," he announced as he leant closer to the table and cushioned his head with one arm, the free hand conjured a goblet of fruit flavoured spirits.

 

He downed the contents of the goblet and set it on the table as it refilled itself. Planning to get drunk this early in the morning was pitiful for the purpose of forgetting was downright pitiful, the work of swine without an ounce of shame. He smiled at the comparison. That was a good one.

 

"Time heals all wounds, eh?" Another goblet full of fruit flavoured spirits was downed. "That's how it should have been!"

 

He waited for the goblet to fill again. It was an unfamiliar feeling, drinking to forget.

 

"I put it all behind me, it should have stayed there," he downed the goblet and slammed it on the table. "Buried under the sand of time! Ain't that right, angel?"

 

He looked at his right and whimpered. The alcohol was kicking in.

 

"Tha's right, 'M alone right now."

 

He took a swig and laid his head back down. His darkened spectacles slipped down. He heard a knock on his door.

 

"Leave me be!" He bellowed, drank the rest of the liquor and threw it at the direction of the door.

 

A flurry of footsteps was heard scurrying away. It may have been important, but his attendants knew better than to disturb their employer when he was in a hissy fit. It seems like the betting pool on "Who Angered Signor Crowley This Time" opening back up tonight at the pub, better tell the chaps downstairs.

 

Crowley waited for the sound of footsteps to die down before materializing the goblet back into his hands for another round. He closed his eyes and wished the angel were there to listen to him. He listened enough and was supportive when the angel was plastered as he went on and on about Michael and Gabriel. That blessed bugger would the same for him, right? Right, of course he would! What kind of a friend would he be if he didn't!?

 

His mind supplied images of the memories from the memories he remembered last night. He concentrated as hard as his alcohol-addled brain could, to connect one image to the other.

 

...A dark cloud in the sky that winked out of existence in a flash...

 

...A runaway viper or snake...

 

...Lucifer's odd shadow...Odd since he saw a hat on it... It was darker than the rest of the shadow too...

 

Crowley quickly opened his eyes before the excruciating memory of boiling liquid sulfur overwhelms him again. There was no need to relive that memory again. The transformation that came afterwards provided no comfort. He winced at the thought, burned picture stills of those moments in his mind, and quickly straightened his posture.

 

Something was up.

 

He flicked his serpentine tongue. He couldn't put a finger on it, but his gut told him that there was a connection somewhere, a fine, faint thread. He could feel it and when he follows it, he encounters a ball of entanglement rather than the source.

 

 It was time to sober up.

 

He made a large glass bottle appear and the alcohol started to fill it up. Thirty percent alcohol content was a force to be reckoned with.

 

"Everything did go downhill since I returned that snake to the Animal Creation Studies Department," he commented as he took a piece of paper to scribble down those particular memories.

 

"Are you trying to tell me something?" The demon yelled as he lifted his face upwards. "I thought You've given up on Us — on Me?"

 

Crowley lowered his head. Of course he wasn't going to get an answer. That was to be expected. He was one of the Unforgivables after all. He groaned loudly and slammed his hands onto the table. He caught his darkened spectacles before it fell off the table and perched it back on his nose.

 

Ineffability his arse, if there was something that was needed to be done, nice clear instructions would be more effective. More obvious hints would be much more appreciated...not these bollocks mind games.

 

He looked at the note he read carefully read each item.

 

Hat...

 

An image popped in his mind. It was some time after his transformation was complete and he had dealt with his feelings about the Fall. He was exploring his new 'home' and it seemed like Lucifer was speaking to someone in hushed tones. It was dark. He was able to see well in those conditions yet the figure was still somehow obscured by some dark mist.

 

A shiver ran down his spine as he circled the word Hat in his note.

 

In the dark mist, there were only two things Crowley was able to remember with such acuity. A sharp-toothed delighted smile and an unimaginably black hat.

 

Crowley stood up and made his way to the door, past the stairs, past the shop and his employees, going straight to the nearest Academic Guild in town. Aziraphale should be able to figure it out what The Divine was up to.

 

They could figure it out together.

 

* * *

 

"Hwa dost thee make of that?" One of Crowley's store attendants asked his peers, using his thumb to point to their employer who rushed off without a word.

 

"Il Signor…e impazzito?" One opens up.

 

"Went crazy? No, no, no! S'got to be the botched up order for 'ere cloves the other day." Another offers.

 

"Nay, s'got t' be the fault of that chap in tha library." Another pipes in.

 

Some nodded in agreement and the other argued it was something else. One thing was for sure, they'll know for sure soon enough.

 

* * *

 

Over the years, many scholars and scientists have tried to grasp the nature of the universe. Some say it is hot, others argue that it is cold. There are those who believe that it is ever expanding and those who think it's a total waste of time trying to understand beyond the Earth when we can't even understand the very planet we live in. All sides came equipped with their findings, and there were those who continuously came up with more creative ways to prove their point.

 

And then, there are those who are fed up with the whole thing, raised their hands in the air, surrendering and stomping off saying: "Probably ALL of these theories are correct. Don't ask me for proof. I quit!"

 

These poor, overworked and overly tired people deserve a pat on the back and a golden star. They probably figured out the joke about the fossils and decided that the best answer is the simplest answer: ALL OF THE ABOVE.

 

Surprisingly (a surprise, in the view of their colleagues who continued to persevere), they are right. Evidence is not everything and the real answers are usually the ones that cannot be comprehended by the human mind. Such is the nature of the Multiverse.

 

**??? (Definitely Before The War That Tore Heaven Apart)**

 

Drifting...

 

Drifting was all this entity of mist could do.

 

Amidst the vast darkness and tiny spots of light (which were perceived to be planets or stars until proven wrong), an entity of mist that was unimaginably black, drifted in one direction.

 

The space seemed infinite. There was simply no telling. The dark mist knew he wasn't getting nearer to _anything_. It felt as if he [5] were trapped inside some panorama. The six sides that surrounded him were painted black and the white spots were just paint splatters from a toothbrush. And by some cruel joke, when he'd get somewhat nearer to a face, the box will magically elongate.

 

He formed a mouth and yawned. There was nothing in this universe worth noting. There was nothing to be gained here apart from perpetual drifting and unbearable silence.

 

While there was no sense of time in this expanse of nothingness, he believed that he had been stuck in this damned panorama for a long, long time.

 

The other universes weren't _this desolate_. There was life in different universes, celestial bodies to admire and thermodynamics to be experienced.

 

He wanted nothing more than to finally slip out of this wretched void and get on with his life.

 

He had the power to slip in and out of universes. The problem was that he...hadn't quite get a handle of it. He didn't know how to use it. He was ashamed. He cursed his juvenile existence. He cursed his very existence. He cursed this pretentious, desolate landscape.

 

He stopped drifting and just stayed very still. The  silence was getting to him again.

 

The _blasted_ void made his thoughts – his concerns – seem louder than it should. It made him remember things, like his very first memory. One instant there was nothing and in the next, there was a black mist, him.

 

No, the mist back then was not the very same him that was currently trapped in this shoddy panorama. That mist was what he _used_ to be.

 

Self-awareness and rationality were the aspects he obtained recently [6].

 

Self-awareness hit him mid-devouring a civilization that who had such affinity to wildlife that they made it a point to cover their bodies with the hides of those they hunted. When it hit him, he paused to feel the extent of his body, which he realized was a misty substance, and continued where left off.

 

He had time. He'll learn all sorts of things along the way.

 

The first thing he learned was that he was a predator amongst mortals. They and the planet they were living in were sources of sustenance, food. Many stood against him, but none could _ever hope_ to match him... not even in brute strength alone.

 

He learned that he could do much more than swallowing planets whole or biting big chunks of it. His favourites were Shapeshifting, Shadow Control, Teleportation and Mind Control, among many others.

 

Upon gaining Rationality, he wondered if he needed to set himself apart or to live amongst mortals.

 

He was delighted to discover he had the capacity to speak multiple languages and even have enough restraint and patience to dwell [7] with mortals [8]. And like mortals, he found things he liked and disliked.

 

Now that he had thought about it, it _has_ been a while since his last rampage. He relished the memory of those screams and unstoppable sobbing. They were music to his ears, or at least whatever organ in his form that was responsible for discerning sound.

 

What was that planet called again? Did it start with a P? Plu—

 

Well, nevermind. It doesn't matter, it never did. The need to ask the name of the planet or the species he was consuming never occurred to him. He felt peckish at the time (he always was) and a meal was set before him. Surely, it was only right to relieve that hunger.

 

Fear...desperation, and ooh...despair were just icing on the (proverbial) cake.

 

But he made a note to ask next time.

 

The mouth on his misty form smiled and snickered from time to time as he remembered the curses and promises of revenge thrown at him.

 

Oh.

 

The mouth turned upside down, looking much like a deep frown.

 

When will 'next time' happen? Will there even be a 'next time'? Rage started to fill his being. Again.

 

> _"Aren't you tired of this all? Are you only capable of destruction? There has to be something else you can do to spend your time! Begone terrible beast!"_

 

Ah, there they are, the wretched voices and the questions they spat.

 

The mouth formed into a deeper frown.

 

Ever since learning about his capacity for understanding language, he questioned himself.

He questioned his existence.

 

What was his purpose?

 

How far will he go?

 

Is Destruction the only path ahead of him?

 

He pondered on the philosophies and the ideals mortals found themselves believing in.

 

Do those things apply to him?

 

He found that he cared enough to explore the possibilities, to find some answers.

 

And then his line of thought gravitated back to the situation at hand.

 

Being stuck in this infernal void delays those plans! [9] The mist began to condense and manifest tentacle-like appendages, which began to thrash around wildly. All in a display of anger and frustration. His growling, cussing, and roaring did nothing to overpower the silence.

 

It was maddening.

 

And then it wasn't.

 

His whole body froze, mid-thrash. His surroundings became a space that was a total opposite of the space he was in a second ago.

 

There was sound. There was matter (buildings, stairs and even outdoor furniture). There were living things. And then there was this curious, but infuriating, brightness all around.

 

The rage inside him died down and willed his tentacles began to vaporize, returning to their misty appearance.

 

He decided to roam around.

 

He took in the sight of the white architecture, golden pathways, jeweled columns and the beings that used them. He noted that his dark appearance definitely stood out amongst all this gleam and glamour.

 

He felt the need to hide. He looked to his left and looked at his right. Something was wrong. Something... felt off.

 

Dread filled his being at it dawned on him that there were almost no shadows in this realm.

 

He zoomed across the sky, looking for an exit, but there were none to be found.

 

The urge to destroy kicked in. He can easily destroy this realm, he thought. No one has come close to his immense power after all.

 

Power?

 

He realized he couldn't hold onto his power. It felt like it was slipping through his fingers. Anxiety and panic sunk in as he realized that none of his skills were working as well. He wanted to shriek and scream.

 

This can't be happening! What's wrong with this place!?

 

That was just the tip of the iceberg.

 

He couldn't feel his...well his body. He had never felt so detached from his body. It happened so suddenly, he didn't even feel having let go of it. He could see the particles of his body disperse, blend into the strange realm's atmosphere.

 

For the first time in his entire existence, he felt pure, unadulterated _fear_.

 

The scene before him warped, so fast it was comparable to a blink of an eye.

 

He found himself before a Figure, ultimately a larger version of those beings he saw earlier while exploring.

 

The Being was sitting on a fluffy white cloud and seemed to be writing something on a pure white desk. She noticed the new presence and put on a radiant smile.

 

The Smile was so radiant he found it hard to keep looking.

 

 On the bright side, he could feel attachment to his body again. It was whole and condensed. His powers becoming more accessible too.

 

"Welcome, visitor, did thou like what thou hast seen?"

 

He was stunned. Her voice seemed to come from somewhere else, yet She was the only one there. He found it hard to put together a sentence, but frowned as he felt a headache coming along.

 

She laughed. "My apologies, young traveler, this realm has never receiveth a visitor from the Outside."

 

He felt like he was about to be thrown into a whole lot of trouble he never asked for.

 

Oh, don't misunderstand. He liked trouble. He simply felt that this was the kind of trouble wasn't particularly fond of.

 

"Oh, much fun is to be hadth," The Being beamed.

 

He frowned.

 

* * *

**130X**

 

It was midday and Crowley was running out of places to search. He had gone to all of the buildings he thought Aziraphale would be in. Parks, cantinas, and various classrooms, but still no angel. The library was his best bet, yet he couldn't catch a glimpse of the angel's hair nor shadow.

 

He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, looking around. And then decided to wait in the Guild House he knew Aziraphale stayed in.

 

Getting there, he felt the stares students and passers-by gave him. He knew the angel wouldn't appreciate the attention once he returns home, but the demon thought it was a good payback to being so elusive.

 

After about an hour of waiting nearby, his impatience drove him to stare at the guild's lodging wing in hopes of figuring out which room belonged to his friend.

 

The demon's snooping and lurking alerted the guard stationed nearby. The guard looked like he wasn't getting enough sleep lately and was rudely woken up from his nap, judging from his sunken eyes and the yawn he let out. Napping with eyes open, not something you'd see everyday. Crowley was impressed.

 

The sleepy guard approached him and kindly asked the purpose of his visit.

 

"Have you seen Signor Fell any time today? I couldn't catch him at all." Crowley inquired with an amicable and innocence the guard quickly dismissed the former's 'snooping and lurking' as nothing malicious.

 

"Ah, Signor Fell's amico!" The guard exclaims in delight and then soon deflated. "Mr. Fell hasn't returned in over a month. He says his mama succumb to an illness and needed to tend to her."

 

The guard continued to ramble on about how Signor Fell was good to him. The demon didn't care for the details. The first two sentences were enough.

 

Rage was the first emotion he felt and he wanted to shout,

 

"What the flying fuck, angel!? Weren't we getting bloody along splendidly these past few years!?"

 

The demon held the words in, flashed a smile, and thanked the guard. This was a place Aziraphale was fond of, one of the bastard's forts, which meant he had to respect and abide by its code on proper behaviour. He sauntered out of the complex.

 

Crowley felt other emotions come at him in waves. Anger lingered and was soon accompanied by frustration, defeat and betrayal. But above all, the sense of loneliness and defeat hit him with harsher blows.

 

Aziraphale left without telling him. The fact stung more than it should. It wasn't odd and they've done the same for centuries. What was different this time around?

 

Crowley started to laugh, a small laugh that starts from the throat that gets choked and turns into a croak then ends up as a groan.

 

Maybe there was still some alcohol in his bloodstream.

 

What was he to do now?

 

Well...there was a good tavern right around that corner over there. That's a start. He might as well pick off where he left off this morning.

 

With something like a spring in his step, Crowley sauntered his way to the tavern and didn't come out of it until the sun was out the next morning.

 

* * *

1 They are the same Original stock, for that matter. But despite this, their creation allowed a sense of individuality to them, a set of unique characteristics with both strengths and weaknesses. If one didn't know any better (and no one does. That is ineffability for you), they'd say angels, including their Fallen siblings, are prototypes for humans.up

 

1.1 The non-occurrence of dreams and nightmares for angels are only theoretically. As a rule, angels don't sleep and no accounts have been recorded of such instances in Heaven's books.up

 

2 The presence of snakes in other articles of clothing seem to appease Crowley's subconscious desire to turn his footwear into snake skin. But somewhere in the 20th century, as he will find out, this subconscious desire overrides everything else.up

 

3They had perfect attendance up until that moment. They were there from the first time, lurking. One could say they owed it all to Crowley to be the professional lurkers they are today.up

 

4 Eden is a particularly fond memory. It was arguably the best series of firsts he has experienced in long life. It was the first time someone didn't react negatively of his eyes, the first time he had a casual conversation without receiving a cold shoulder or a snarky remark, the first time he had experiences kindness after the Fall, and the first time he met the dastard angel. He'll never admit it to anyone, _essspesssially not to himsssself_.up

 

5 Sex and gender don't seem to apply. Those terms couldn't fully encompass the unnamed entity's potential. They also suggests lack of imagination. But if asked, at that moment, "he" as a pronoun would suffice. If asked at a later date, "Lord", Milord", "Sir", "Master" and his name would be your only options (using terms that indicate a lower status than what was previously mentioned proved to be fatal). The addition of adjectives to match his greatness are known to be well received.up

 

6 The measure of time, like the measure of distance, varies from person to person, entity to entity. There was no way of knowing how ancient this entity is and his idea of "recently" surely does not correspond with our understanding of the term. It's best to believe that it was a recent event with no questions asked. up

 

7 Not always as a living thing, mind. Disguising as accessories and additional shadow components led to more successful stealth experiments.up

 

8 These experiences were short-lived. There are times he panics after being found out and just gobbles the planet right up, not that he'd ever admit ever feeling panicked. Do any of the planets he's visited ever survive? Yes, some do. They are few and far in between. up

 

9 There were no such plans when he first ventured into the void. He'd never admit that this time in the void allowed for some thought-organizing and plot-scheming. up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :D
> 
> I'm not done with chap 3 yet, but I have an outline of how things go. If things go according to plan, this might end with 8 chapters. Tbh, this was supposed to be a really long one-shot but it kinda seemed better to cut things up into chapters like this.


	4. Chap 3 - Where an Angel and a Demon Find Themselves Reunited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this chapter took longer than I expected to finish. Hahaha
> 
> Anyways, this chap is purely Good Omens content (sorry Villainous readers >.<;; BUT, there's gonna be a lot of BH in the next chap~). So expect some shippy themes below (hehehe)
> 
> Also, a fair warning for those sensitive/have strong feelings about Purgatory, as a topic. It gets slightly touched here and if it feels offensive, I apologize. I don't mean any harm or offense. If I get some stuff wrong, I'm sorry about that too.
> 
> Oh, and for those who got confused in the last chap about the BH (he's "the entity" since this is before he recognizes and accepts the name Black Hat) scene, I took the miniseries canon where God is feminine, so the "She" there is God.
> 
> I'd also like to thank my friends who grilled the chapter. It really needs more than one pair of eyes for this; the extra pairs catch those times my brain decided to stop working. XD
> 
> With that out of the way, hope you enjoy this chapter! :D

**13XX**

It was a sunny day when Aziraphale had set off on his journey. He found that out a little later, since he left before the sun was over the horizon. True to his word (well, an unspoken act of kindness), the guild guard found a glass of ale and a piece of meat pie on the counter in front of him, surprisingly warm and piping hot (yes, in that order). Said guard also found himself swaddled like a baby in a tartan sheet when he woke up from an unexpected nap.

 

Aziraphale's room in the guild was occupied by the replacement stationer, Signor Filippo Scusi. He would find himself waking up one morning inside an unfamiliar room. The feeling of surprise would leave after a few minutes and would get started on a routine that he felt like he had been doing since the day he was born. And the first thing on his to-do list is 'to dust the rare text collection' he just remembered he was taking care of for a friend. It wouldn't occur to him to question why he was taking care of such a collection, or the fact that his friend's face seemed foggy. He would just reach out to the duster and get on with it.

 

"Alright, it looks like everything's in place. I have good old Sigric's itinerary and a copy of the Mappa Mundi [1]," the angel brought up said documents and smiled. "If things go swell, it'll be over lickity-split."

 

He said to reassure himself and to swat away those pesky thoughts about leaving town without warning. He's sure Crowley wouldn't mind. And if...

 

If... On the off-chance, the old serpent does mind, the demon would understand, wouldn't he? He had gone over this around a hundred times in his head. _The lack of a greeting_ wasn't the pressing issue he should worry his little head about; the mere fact he's _fraternizing_ with the demon was. He bit his lip. He shouldn't feel his heart sink at viewing their relationship (what it was slowly becoming) objectively — something that was dangerously going beyond 'business and convenience'.

 

Deciding it was better to focus on the _actual act of departing_ would do his mind good, the angel began to walk out into the freezing air of the outside.

 

Aziraphale set on a journey of reformation, not unlike how pilgrims journey in hope of attaining forgiveness (except for the fact that Avignon was not part of his itinerary, which was a standard pilgrimage site every pilgrim of the time would surely visit). He brought with him the most basic of necessities and the most gracious of hearts. How could he seek forgiveness if he couldn't forgive, in turn?

 

The road ahead of the Principality seemed to know this fact and decided to test him numerous times in the form of unfortunate souls, charlatans, and sometimes a person with a bit of both. He would share what he had on him with those who needed it, and forgave those who would threaten and robbed him. There were times that there was nothing he could give, and so he would count on the extra small miracle or two hundred to serve his cause.

 

Aziraphale hoped and prayed that his little acts of kindness (outside of his given orders to cast a protective spell here, to cure the sick there and to bring blessings to the faithful) would serve some comfort to fellow travellers.

 

Sometimes people flocked Aziraphale, thinking he was a living saint or the second incarnation of the Lord, Our Saviour. Ruffled and clearly distressed, he would quickly wipe part of the good people's memories regarding his appearance and the sound of his voice.

 

He just hoped he caught them all. He could do without another strongly worded letter from Gabriel, and most certainly without Michael's scolding. He could imagine Uriel's cold gaze, if she were watching, as she writes a report addressed to the Angelic Disciplinary Task Force [2] sent a chill down the Principality's spine.

 

But as things go, word travels fast in the underground network. The appearance of a big-hearted and somehow blessed fool was a target too good to pass up on. Humans are naturally opportunistic beings after all. It encouraged charlatans everywhere, hoping to meet and experience blessings themselves.

 

Word has it that the more heart-wrenching the story you told him, the better the rewards you reap. And so, each charlatan polished their carefully crafted tearjerker that mixed fact and fiction masterfully. If someone were to collect these stories and turned them into an anthology, the lucky bastard would be filthy rich in a year's time [3].

 

As much as Aziraphale wanted to be compassionate at all times (he was made a Being of Love after all), he found it hard to let this tomfoolery go on any longer. He wasn't dumb.

 

By the thirty-nth time someone tried to rob the angel, while selling his particularly tragic story, Aziraphale grew troubled. It had to stop. The charlatan, on this particularly rainy evening, found himself almost struck by lightning. It struck about half a foot away from where he stood, er, fell back.

 

"Look here, dear boy," Aziraphale called the charlatan's attention, his voice stern but full of patience. "If I catch you or your other silly friends trying to inconvenience anyone on the road again, you may not see yourselves quite as lucky." He pointed to the clouds.

 

The charlatan looked up. The clouds looked ominous. They let out a loud rumble, as if growling in warning, while friction produced thin threads of electricity. He grimaced as he stood up. He looked at the smiling figure before him and cursed before skedaddling.

 

Word, as it travels fast (and apparently has wings and ears on the ground), reached fellow charlatans. Some decided to stay away and try their luck elsewhere. Others persevered and worked harder than ever.

 

The journey was not only a test of values. It was also a test of endurance. He took it upon himself to travel the simplest way, by foot. But when he saw the opportunity, would hitch a ride with a farmer who was about to head back to his farm, just at the outskirts of the city. Arriving at the farm, he would shake the farmer's hand, thank him [4] and set off once again.

 

The roads weren't what they used to be. The flat, perfectly paved roads where now rugged and uneven. Aziraphale could easily picture a carriage overturning on this terrain. He resisted using a minor miracle when a hole started to manifest under the sole of one of his boots. His miracles would be reserved to those who need it, never for himself...despite the protests of his boots, tunic and hoses.

 

Aziraphale found himself passing by Milan, and various French cities. He could feel the growing tension between the French and Englishmen, and it worried him. He still had some orders to fulfil, there's only so much he can do.

 

Not to mention, the Flemish fought for their freedom not too long ago where he busied himself caring for those affected. By the time he popped over the channel into England, he found out he had been a little too late. The famine had started and some of the villages he passed by were almost wiped out.

 

He did what he could for the survivors and ensured healthier crops would grow to replace the damaged ones. Tears of joy and praise rained on him from the villagers.

 

"Oh, it is nothing. There is no need to thank me." The angel would tell them. "I did what anyone would. I must be going now, but please do remember to never lose faith in our Father."

 

Countless "God bless you"'s and "May fortune smile upon you"'s were heard as Aziraphale departed.

 

"It's all my fault," The angel would whisper to himself once he was far enough. "I didn't make it in time."

 

While his heart was heavy in his chest, no tears were shed. He had to hurry to the next town.

 

Hopefully, God-willing, he would make it in time before the famine would devastate the country.

 

* * *

**13XX**

On the other side of the coin, Crowley realized how blatantly stupid his line of thinking was. He and Aziraphale are on opposite sides and that never changed. Showing an angel – _especially_ Aziraphale, his weak side was never a good idea. Relying on an angel to _miraculously_ solve his problems is also never a good idea.

 

Everything between them was purely _social_ , nothing  personal.

 

That was something he had to get into thick head. The angel had no obligation to inform him of anything. It was the angel's business and he had nothing to do with it. He probably went off to fulfil orders from Upstairs. Nothing new, just like the usual.

 

It wasn't like Aziraphale went off to actively avoid him...

 

Right?

 

No, that can't be. They were getting along terrifically and Aziraphale had even consented to being Tempted for a quick bite or twenty. The angel had been smiling a lot more lately too as a result. No, not that smile he puts on unconsciously as a force of habit or by intended design. He was talking about that smile that lights up the air, the sky — the kind that he could stare at forever, if he could.

 

"Tch," distaste flowed out of the demon and he swore, before taking a swig of his drink.

 

There goes his brain again, meandering through bushes it knows it shouldn't crash, head first, into.

 

He stayed in his not-so-little spice shop in Bologna, taking trips for business whenever needed. He didn't hear much from Downstairs. The only notable summon [5] he received was for that time some mortal was having a field trip in places he shouldn't be [6]. He figured he could hold up the blasted twat's fort for the time being. It was common sense.

 

The angel's smile was not the point. The point was he didn't handle the memories too well. He looked downright _spineless and pathetic_ . That was not his style. That was not _him_.

 

Thinking about it now, it made him gag. He was glad Aziraphale didn't have to see him in that state. He  would've had cheerfully chugged down holy water than have those pitying eyes burn right through him. Of course, those eyes would come with an embrace, gentle head pats and maybe a round of rubbing small circles on his back. It wouldn't have been a bad idea if the circumstances were different.

 

It was acceptable for the angel to come running to him for help or to be a shoulder to lean on, the reverse doesn't apply for him – a demon. Hell would look down on that kind of behaviour. Heck, he didn't have to look far, _he_ himself couldn't stand the idea.

 

It all worked out for the best and he'll just have to practice talking about _those days_ , if the angel were to ever ask. That's a big "If", with a capital "I". Aziraphale never asked him about it and he had a feeling it would stay that way...unless he's the one who slips.

 

The whole thing might have been nothing after all. An overreaction, it was. The angel's sensitivity and worry might have rubbed on him.

 

It seemed to be a "One night only" sort of performance to boot. The vivid memories never resurfaced in his sleep ever again. It took him a while (a couple of years? A decade? How long was it again?) to consider sleeping again.

 

But just like the first time he tried it, a comfortable darkness surrounded him. It felt like floating, or being cushioned by unbelievably plush pillows. Then, the darkness would release him when it was time to awaken. Sleep was as peaceful and rejuvenating as it always has been.

 

Tonight was another night for him to revel in the velvety luxury of sleep. He left his glass of wine on the table, as well as his pair of darkened spectacles.

 

Turning towards his bed, he slightly jumped at the sight of one of his employees. He was sure he didn't notice anyone enter his room. No one was allowed to do so after all.

 

His hand instinctively reached for his momentarily discarded darkened spectacles with one quick motion and set them on the bridge of his nose. His unexpected guest didn't comment on it and both stood in awkward silence. Neither blinked or breathed, not that either was essential to their kind.

 

"Greetings, Milord. How can I be of service?" Crowley greeted with an accompanying bow, after composing himself.

 

"Crowley," Carlos, his employee that was definitely being possessed by one of his superiors (whoever it was, he was just about to know), nodded in acknowledgement. "Hail Satan"

 

"Oh. Yes," Crowley faked a smile, his tongue flicking before murmuring. "Hail Satan."

 

He hated the standard greeting. It sounded so...cult-ish.

 

"This is Dagon, Lord of the Files."

 

Ah, that answered one question.

 

"Would you care for some wine?" Crowley gestured to a polished wine glass on his impeccably made-up table, complete with a table cloth and an unopened bottle of vintage wine.

 

Dagon held up her host's hand in refusal. She was on the clock after all.

 

"We'll also skip the Deeds of the Day. I just read your report. Admirable job as always."

 

Crowley's smile became a tiny bit more sincere on his face. Once eyes weren't on him, he stuck his pinky into his ear to clear the dislodged earwax and blew on it while the Dagon-possessed Carlos was busying craning his neck to have a looksee of his bedroom. The sound of two distinct, dissonant voices speaking in sync wasn't very pleasant to the ears. By the time the Dagon-possessed Carlos was done, Crowley had both hands behind his back with an eerily cheerful smile.

 

"Nice room you've got here."

 

"Thank you, your Disgrace."

 

"Too bad you'll be leaving it, Crowley."

 

Crowley was about to open his mouth in protest but decided to keep his smile on after receiving a look that said _"Got a problem with that, punk?"_ The word 'Punk' here could easily be replaced by any degrading insult of preference.

 

"You will be changing your base of operations to somewhere up north."

 

"How up north are we talking about here?" Crowley asked a little too casually, which merited a raise of an eyebrow. Sensing his mistake, he quickly followed it with a meek, "If you don't my asking, Milord."

 

Dagon (represented by Carlos) watched as Crowley's slit-pupils  avoid her (his) gaze, which was admittedly a tad bit hard with those distracting amber irises the said pupils are swimming in. She decided to continue after hearing a small seemingly apologetic chuckle came out of the serpent.

 

"England, you'll be stationed in England. The specifics are up to you, but we are expecting a spread of ferment on your way there. You are to await further instructions upon establishing. 

 

"Is something happening over there?"

 

Carlos smiled a smile Crowley had never seen grace the brunet's features before, one full of such malice and eagerness that made the fact he was possessed clear as day.

 

"Oh~" Dagon (through Carlos) practically purred. "Exciting things, Crowley, lots of exciting things. It'll be right up your alley, I reckon."

 

"Sounds fantastic, your Disgrace!" The former Serpent of Eden exclaimed in the most jovial tone he could muster with an accompanied swing of an arm (despite having doubts on whether anyone Downstairs had a grasp of things that are 'right up his alley'[7]).

 

"I expect to see this enthusiasm you display in your work." Dagon (through Carlos) smiled and gave the Serpent a meaningful look. "We expect great things from you."

 

The sound of the last word eerily stretched on as Crowley watched Carlos sink down under his floorboards uncannily like the way crocodiles submerge their bodies under a river's murky waters. His shop attendant's body must've been safely delivered to the ground since no clattering or sound of impact afterwards.

 

Crowley had one hand leaning over his work desk and the other palming his neck as he let one of his feet sway in the air.

 

"There goes my plan to turn in for the night." He whined half-heartedly and dramatically plopped on his pristine bed.

 

A smile was on his face. The news, or well, the new order wasn't too bad after all. In fact, it made him all giddy. About a dozen items popped up in his to-do list to prepare for the move and to tie some loose ends in the city and yet he only had one thing in his mind.

 

He'll be seeing the angel soon.

 

A yawn escaped from his lips. Demons don't get physically exhausted, but after prescribing to a routine, that involved the luxuries of sleep, his body craved for it. He looked at the window and saw the darkness of the night.

 

A night of delay wouldn't hurt too much, would it? The angel can wait an extra day or two. After all, they're the embodiment of Patience and the other eight or eleven Fruits, whichever is applicable.

 

Crowley shifted into a comfortable position, snapped away his clothes and darkened spectacles, and made the blanket drape itself on his lithe body. Not long after that, off he went to sink into that velvety darkness he subconsciously wished to be Aziraphale's arms.

* * *

  **134X**

Aziraphale's eyes widened at a very familiar sight. Crowley was standing right there by the monastery's kitchen doorway as he talked to the monks in charge of cooking that day. He could barely hear what they were talking about, but judging from the cargo on Crowley's wagon and how animated the conversation was, business – particularly haggling – would be the safe bet. He instinctively hid himself from view.

 

After going around England for the better part of the past couple of decades, the angel decided to settle down in a monastery run by the Franciscan Conventuals. It was located near a town and their way of life wasn't _too_ restricting. Staying there was hitting two birds with one stone, really. First, he was able to continue living a virtuous life _away_ from temptations and second, he now had a roof over his head – no more camping out or rushing over to the next village before sun down.

 

Everything was going smoothly and then quite suddenly it wasn't.

 

It was a fine afternoon. He was about to tend to the communal vegetable garden before coming into the kitchen. He was the appointed taste-tester[8], and while the monks and friars running the monastery were only allowed to eat once a day, meals for the poor and sick were still being provided apart from lunch time, which required his assistance.

 

Without any warning, Crowley's head turned toward his direction. Under those darkened spectacles, the angel knew for sure he wasn't able to hide his head in time and that the recognition that followed afterwards was immediate. Before the demon could attempt to call out to him, he ran. He threw open a door and ran. He would get scolded for it later, but he'll take it. He just wasn't ready to see Crowley just yet.

 

"Was something over there?" One of the monks in charge of kitchen duty inquired of the spice merchant who was looking quite perplexed.

 

"Oh, no. It was nothing." Crowley composed himself as he turned to look at the inquisitive monk. "I was just admiring the garden you have here. Those tomatoes look absolutely plump and well cared for."

 

The monks beamed at him.

 

"Oh yes, our brother take good care of the garden. Brother Zira takes extra time clearing the weeds and singing to them, even when he is not on duty." The other monk explains as he pays for the spices they bought.

 

Crowley nodded, thanked the pair for the business and set off to town, as he intended.

 

He wasn't very sure where exactly he would be setting up his new base of operations when he first set off. Dagon said it was up to him after all.

 

At first, he considered following the trail Aziraphale had left but gave up once he reached a point where it went cold. It was somewhere in France, if he remembered correctly. He then mulled over the thought of settling somewhere in the port area or a prosperous town higher up north. Information flowed more freely in a port area, and had great quality seafood to boot. A prosperous town, on the other hand, was closer to seats of power and a decent information network.

 

Crowley was simply happy with the results of following his gut to head for a prosperous town up north. With some luck, it'll be like old times once more.

 

* * *

**134X (approximately two months after sighting each other for the first time in decades, night time)**

 

"Stay back, you foul fiend!" Aziraphale declared as he waved a branch of Juniper, with leaves and a few berries intact, at the maroon-bellied but otherwise black serpent slithering towards him.

 

The serpent that was slithering from the open library window of a monastery paused his movement for a solid second. Should he continue slithering in or just slither out?

 

He wasn't very sure what to do, at that point. He had caught sight of his best friend about three times now (twice in town and once in the monastery) and three out of three times, said best friend had run away. He wondered if this was truly a good idea.

 

Being unable to shrug (as he lacked the proper limbs to complete the said gesture), it continued its way into the room. Once it settled onto the stone floor, it flicked its tongue once, then twice, before its shape widened, elongated to form a stylish merchant-class medieval man with dark spectacles. This newly formed man coughed before getting into the act.

 

"Argh!" Crowley drew up his arms to block the continuous, yet somewhat gentle, strikes to his face. "O,Virtuous Principality, what dost thou have against me when I have committed no sin?"

 

Aziraphale's face scrunched up upon hearing the demon's sarcastically dramatic tone and stopped beating  him with the Juniper branch.

 

"I should have known better, but I suppose it doesn't work after all." The angel motioned towards a rather untidy desk and set down the branch. "I should make a note about it."

 

Seeing his friend take a seat and start on said note, Crowley put down his arms and snarled.

 

"Seriously, angel? You greet me by beating me with a..." Crowley moved closer and pick up the branch on the table. "You beat me with a Juniper branch? I thought you were under surveillance again and needed help!"

 

"Oh, good gracious, no!" Aziraphale looked around a bit nervously as he went from being unsure to being very sure of himself. "I'm not being watched."

 

One of the demon's eyebrows raised in question.

 

"What's this supposed to do, then? That twig ain't no bloody flaming sword, for one thing."

 

Aziraphale looked at him, his hand steadily letting the ink blot the parchment get bigger and bigger, and looked away. He was finding the wall carpet with the embroidery of St. Francis a worthy subject of his gaze.

 

"It was meant to..."

 

Crowley placed the branch back down, with some of the leaves brushing against the angel's forearm. He crossed his arms, his back leaning on a wall.

 

There was silence between them as the demon waited for the angel to continue. The continuation didn't come as Aziraphale looked so transfixed on that wall carpet.

 

The demon pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. He could feel a headache coming, and it wasn't because of the sacred text in his immediate proximity. He let out an exhausted sigh.

 

The angel snuck a glance back at the demon and placed the quill into the inkwell. He felt a twinge of guilt for his actions. He admitted that he wasn't handling the situation well, the scenarios of how he were to conduct himself shattered after seeing the demon casually talking (no, perhaps haggling) with his brothers in the monastery. He did not imagine their next meeting would become this stifling.

 

"Listen, Aziraphale, I'm not mad at you. You can do any bloody righteous thing you want and keep it under wraps, for all I care. You're not obligated to tell me everything, I get that. I'm a demon after all." Crowley palmed the back of his neck with his left hand. "But... But if there's something bothering you, you can tell me. As a friend or by some unspoken thing in The Arrangement, you can tell me. Was it something I've–"

 

Aziraphale's eyes widened upon hearing the demon trying to pin the blame on himself. This was not one of those times and there weren't many to begin with. His nature [9] made this whole thing oh so conflicting. He had to do something quickly.

 

"It was meant to ward off demons." Aziraphale cut in with a voice so grave it felt like he was divulging a fact no mortal should ever know.

 

"Pfft," The demon started after a beat of silence. "So all that swinging around – no, don't even start. We both know how out of touch you are with swords. There's not an ounce of _finesse_ in that – was to see if a Juniper branch will cause me to... I don't know, spontaneously combust... Maybe develop a rash or something?"

 

The angel closed his eyes as he felt the heat rise from his cheeks.

 

"Angel... Don't tell me you've put your money on that branch?"

 

The demon eyed the angel and took note of the other's clenched hand. He quickly sealed his lips together, his hands flying to his mouth. His barks of laughter came out as muffled chuckles. It didn't take long for him to slide down onto the floor and curl into a ball.

 

"I've read about it from a medicinal plant text I was copying a few months ago." The angel cheerfully supplied, finally letting himself get a chuckle out of the situation.

 

If it weren't for the fact that it was the dead of night and  there were at least fifty others, sound asleep in their bed, in the monastery, Crowley would have burst into pure unrestrained laughter. _Oh_ , the idea of leaving Aziraphale to explain the noise to his fellow brothers was rather tempting, but since they're actually out of this stalemate, he considered it extra service.

 

He, a demon whose cover is being a _spice merchant_ , was to be warded off – _be afraid_ of, develop something because of – a Juniper branch?

 

That's the best joke he had heard in _years_.

 

The laughter continued for a solid five minutes. After having his fill, Crowley wiped an unshed tear from his eye as he eyed a pissy, huffing angel (since it didn't take long for said angel to recompose himself and wondered why it was taking Crowley longer to do so).

 

"So, how did that little experiment work out for you again, angel?" The demon asked, tone playful and full of mirth.

 

"A complete failure," Aziraphale pouted and turned away from the demon. "And, it wasn't even that funny. There was no need to laugh as hard as you did just now."

 

"Now, now, no need to throw a tantrum at me." The demon placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.

 

"A tantrum, you say?" The fair-haired angel swiftly turned in his seat to face the redhead, face looking stern and displeased. "I am no child, old serpent, and I refuse to be treated as such! In fact, just a few minutes ago, you were sprawled onto the floor unable to control your laughter, not unlike a toddler with a new toy! Very unbecoming of a working adult, might I add."

 

The angel's tone had a touch of superiority in it. It was obvious he was relishing in the triumph of a good comeback. The smug smile he put on for a second didn't go past Crowley's ever-observant eye. The demon sighed in happy defeat.

 

"Alright, alright. You win this time, Aziraphale, you win. Do you want me to call uncle?"

 

The angel gave a satisfied sound, still basking in the glory of his well-crafted comeback. The feeling was cut short when confusion set in.

 

"What brings The Serpent of Eden by my doorstep?" Aziraphale inquired with an air of authority, which faded as he babbled on. "Well, not literally doorstep since you slithered your way up from a window after all. And technically not mine, since I don't own the monastery. Oh but, you understand what I'm trying to say, don't you, Crowley?"

 

As the angel babbled on, Crowley positioned himself to lean with his lower back onto the wall, near where the work table was. To be frank, the words were tumbling in from one ear and somersaulting out the other. He just liked listening to his friend babble on, after so long. He instinctively knew when to nod.

 

"Oh you know, a job." He placed tucked his hands into the pockets (that somehow manifested) of his coatihardie, bringing about the air of nonchalance. "Same old, same old."

 

The angel hummed and nodded, looking quite unconvinced. There had to be more to that. The demon was about to produce a few books he brought along, but decided against it. It'll give him another opportunity to visit the angel like this.

 

"And...well... Just came by to properly say 'Hello' to a friend." Crowley gave the angel's shoulder a gentle squeeze before walking to the window. "Especially since someone is avoiding me and doesn't have the talent to be discreet enough in doing so."

 

Aziraphale found himself straightening his back on the stool as he took in the sight of Crowley by the window. He didn't see the demon wink, but he swore the tone of that remark had a bit that would match it perfectly. He found himself staring. The moon was doing a splendid job setting the mood.

 

"I-I– No, that's preposterous," He countered after realizing there was a need to defend himself. "I...I would never–"

 

"Ok, ok, that's enough. I'm just glad you seem to be doing well." Crowley smiled and raised his hand for a mock salute. "See you around, angel. Ciao."

 

He positioned himself to jump off the window and did just that.

 

Aziraphale got out of his seat to peer at the window, worried that the silly old snake would get himself injured. The clouds decided to cover the moon at that moment, making it hard to see the figure of a somewhat large snake slithering away. Content of not hearing any cry for pain, he retreated to his work station and took the Juniper branch into his hands.

 

The start may have not gone well, but something told him that was all tickety-boo.

 

* * *

 

[1] Aziraphale would have wanted Matthew Paris's strip itinerary version for this trip. It would have made things easier to identify. While the Hereform Mappa Mundi was a delight to peer into, it proved to be hard to use in a practical sense. Sadly, the strip itinerary was created a century too late.[up]

 

[2] Uriel wasn't. Another day passes by peacefully for the hardworking Sandalphon. No report was filed and he could freely put his feet up his desk, basking in the delight of knowing his fellow angels were disciplined and hard at work in whatever task they were assigned. Things were as it should be.[up]

 

[3] Someone did in fact, collect these stories. And he _did_ make a sizable profit out of it. His name was Antonio Crowley. About half a year after Aziraphale's departure, he would meet some of these charlatans (while on the journey to a nearby town or village, delivering some ordered spices, Tempting and causing some mischief to those who deserved it) who had the saddest life stories. He made a connection after hearing the rumour of traveller with saint-like attributes. He would later on show this collection to Aziraphale and laugh in and at the angel's face for falling for these fake stories.[up]

 

[4] The farmer couldn't believe his eyes once he went to check his field. His crops were fully watered and were producing bigger, juicier and tastier (confirmed after having his wife cook some for lunch) produce. His livestock were in good health (he was sure some were at death's door when he left that early morning) and some were found to have been expecting. When he checked his shed, a few bags of grain and seed lay on the previously empty floor. Similar stories could be heard.[up]

 

[5] The Powers That Be have their own preference in handling personnel, and distributing orders and commendations. Upstairs prefers the usage of notes, especially strongly worded ones, when sending orders and reminders. It displays efficiency and perfect use of time. In-person meetings and reports were reserved for the delicate and urgent matters. Downstairs prefers a more personal approach. Possessions allowed a two-way conversation (some demons need their orders to be repeated quite a number of times before they get it) that ensures clarity and an element of surprise. This also becomes a good way to momentarily excuse oneself from paper work. Materializing above ground allowed and meeting face-to-face were reserved for more sensitive and secretive dealings. [up]

 

[6] Both Upstairs and Downstairs were quite unsure how this "Dante" was able to find the main entrance for both domains, but decided to be amicable enough to let him roam to his heart's content. Both sides wanted to look good for their parts in the book he said was going to write. Hell called in all their agents above ground to make it look like it's full (to Crowley's delight since he was ready to dish out lip service and elaborate explanations on the event it was about his meetings with a certain angel). When the books came out, both sides were happy with their parts. It was a bit of a head-scratcher how Dante was able to write Purgatory in such vivid detail when the place never made it past conceptual design.[up]

 

[7] The mere fact that Crowley wasn't imprisoned in one of Hell's dungeons with a Hellhound or three toying and nibbling on him for a lifetime and a half was a testament to this apparent lack of knowledge (especially with how a certain angel's name would grace the very top of this metaphorical, since it does _not_ exist, list).[up]

 

[8] Yes, taste-tester and not a cook. For unexplainable reasons, the kitchen would be in complete ruin whenever the abbot tasks Aziraphale to kitchen duty, and so he was banned from handling any cooking procedures. The angel had not been banned from the kitchen entirely since under his direction, the vegetable and lentil dishes have improved immensely in terms of taste. Some would travel long and far just to have a taste of the meals prepared there. That's not all, records seem to show a higher recovery rate amongst the ill, especially those who were admitted to the monastery's medical wing.[up]

 

[9] Aziraphale find the catchphrases "The devil made me do it" or "It was the demon's fault" generally distasteful, especially the 'Free Will' in effect at all times. He finds the fact that he was not immune to accepting and sometimes even employing them himself (mentally) more distasteful. This way of thinking creates a bias he knows he should avoid but ineffably fall into. Being on Earth for so long, he felt obligated to know better than that.[up]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading~
> 
> Remember, if there are things that are unclear or weird, you can always ask me in the comments!


	5. Chap 4 - Where Things Start Moving Along

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Sorry for the long wait! I procrastinated for a week (whoops), but hopefully its length makes up for it.
> 
> Anyways, here's the new chapter~ It w supposed to be longer but when I started writing the third part (yes, it had three parts), things didn't go as expected (in a good way... I think) and will take some time to iron out. I promised a lot of BH last time but with the postponement of the third part, he doesn't have as much screen time as I thought. Hopefully it's still enough to appease anyone who's yearning for more.
> 
> There were also some theories that were proven in the A.I Animation streams~ I squealed with delight when Miguel said that he thinks that the first Evil thing Black Hat did had something to do with an apple (well for this fic, we know Crowley did that bit, bu let's just say that BH will do something more ambitious than that). Same reaction when Alan used the BH puppet to give some pep talk and mentioned the word 'Doomsday'. Ok, I'll stop gushing (but if you want a list, you know where to find me). 
> 
> I give my thanks to those who left kudos, those who subscribed to the fic and those who gave some time to give it a shot! You give me life! ; v ;  
> I wanna thank my friends who grill the chapters before they come out as well!
> 
> For warnings, well, you'd probably need to watch out for my atrocious attempt at using Old English... and my attempt at writing banter.

**??? (Before the War that Tore Heaven Apart)**

Hospitality is an art form and service a host (provider) presents an individual or party who are deemed to be guests (receiver _/_ s). It entails ensuring comfort for the guests during their stay in the host's abode, property or supervision. It ranges from absurd and impeccable levels (having a servant at a guest's beck and call) to humble levels (a mostly hands-off approach where on-call services are available). The guest's _Comfort_ is key - the very _heart and soul_ of this concept. 

'Hospitable' is the last adjective the dark misty entity would use to describe this realm. There was not one ounce (or any decimal percentage _above zero_ ) of comfort to be found there. He was considered a guest, he was sure. While no planet or universe had welcomed him with open arms or considered him a guest (not that they were given a chance or were under the obligation to do so, ninety percent of the time. He gobbled them up after all.) he felt entitled to the privileges of being one. He spied on mortals of all walks of life - he knew how it worked. 

Yet, after that short "welcome speech" and "House Rules" [1] the Creator of the realm gave, he was generally given a cold shoulder. 

There were no attendants to show him to his living quarters. There were no servants to ascertain his comfort. There was no one to boss around. There were no living quarters to begin with! Well, living quarters that were meant for him. Just what was She taking him for, _an imbecile?_ A _pillock_ ? He didn't take this _insult_ lying down. 

He made outbursts. He would turn his misty body into a mass of tentacles, each one flailing and thrashing around with unbelievable speed and accuracy, making sure no architecture was safe from his rage. He screamed, howled and cursed, catching the attention of some of the realm's residents. He found delight in it. His point was getting across and it served as an excellent output for stress **.**

Well, it worked for a good second until he realized the outbursts weren't effective... at all. 

All the concrete chunks and crumbs he saw fall towards unsuspecting residents never hit their marks. They were miracled back in their proper, respective, places. The residents that he thought paid attention to him apparently didn't stay around long enough to be awed by his _immaculate_ show of strength and will. 

Seeing the ineffectivity of his methods, he resorted to his _other_ means. He tried enveloping the realm with the whole of his being. He tried a hostage situation with the scribe and messenger residents. He tried to none too subtly complain about his bloody treatment in the realm, not unlike reciting a litany – being the lead and the chorus at the same time. The issues usually revolve around: a) the absurd Brightness of the realm, hence the major lack of shadows, b) the lack of his own living quarters, c) the lack of attention to his needs as a guest, d) Her blatant indifference and insulting nature, then rinse and repeat. He even tried to cover up Her Work Table by spreading his inky mass over it to prevent getting any work done. 

Despite all this, all outbursts were rebuffed, in the most gracious manner anything can be rebuffed. He would get scooped up by Her big hands, oh-so gently scrunched into this tiny condensed ball of pure black resentment. It would then be followed by any of the following: a Smile, a Chuckle, or a Pat (which landed curiously, ineffably, always accurately) on the head despite any form he took, or any combination of the former options. To him, She took _pleasure_ in treating him this way. 

Disgust, irritation, envy ran in his veins, made him seethe and bubble with anger. It made him feel his age - juvenile and probably on the same footing as _toddlers._

It wasn't bloody fair. 

Those resident creatures had living quarters. **_Why can't he_ ** **?**

Said living quarters come in the form of low-rise apartment buildings made of stucco with small square windows for ventilation and light. One unit was allotted for each resident. The interior of a unit was sparsely decorated and had the most basic furniture (a bed, a workstation and a kitchenette). There were no room dividers and were painted a solid color (each unit had a different color, most were of a pastel variant) [2]. Most were left in pristine condition, mostly because the owners never had much use of them. They worked round the clock, not unlike well-oiled machines. It made him wonder if the residents ever visited their homes. 

It felt deliciously wasteful to see...until he remembered being denied of living quarters himself [3]. 

Whenever he wasn't on a rampage of some sort or scheming for the next one, he would look over Her shoulder. 

What in the world was this _bloody thing_ She's working on that was stealing all Her attention? She should focus on _him._ He was Her guest after all. 

There were pictures and all this cryptic text. He tried deciphering the text, but his attempts all ended in vain. Whenever he was close to figuring something out, a splitting headache would ambush him. He would glare daggers in Her direction, especially after hearing three 'Tsks' coming from Her direction. 

"Why would Her Majesty even bring me here to this wretched realm?" He grumbled one time while exercising (read: shape-shifting into… outlandish forms). "To bore and irritate me to death, perhaps?" 

"Thou needeth from Me and thou shall provide," She said absentmindedly as She stretched before resuming Her scribbling. 

He stopped mid-stretch and contemplated. He had not expected a reply after all this time. He ran the words over, again and again. He felt inexplicable anger rise within him. 

 **"What do you mean by that?!** Are You saying _You_ are doing me a favor?" He barked, floating and swivelling to position his body in front of Her. "I do not seem to remember asking You for anything (other than living quarters...some servants...and attention, none of which You have given)! Do You mind giving me a refresher on the day, time and place when this favor came about? **Nothing about that seems to ring a bloody bell."**

She smiled. 

"T'is time for thy walk, is it not?" 

Before he could violently react, by lunging himself at Her, he found himself on the ground of a heavily populated area. He immediately sought for a shadow to take cover in as he continuously cursed and screeched in frustration. He travelled in what little shadows were in the area before settling in a safe-looking area. 

 _Rustle, rustle_  

"What is wrong with that Woman!?" A now black reptilian-looking creature (to be later known as a snake) complained as the upper part of its body rose up to scout its surroundings. "She traps me here, ignores my very being _, and then_ spouts some cryptic messages and avoids a confrontation. The nerve, who does she thinks She is?" 

The area he found himself in was verdant, full of vegetation. It was a good place to settle in for the time being. Shadowy patches were abundant and the greenery readily allows for camouflage, especially after the realization that he was, in fact, the only animal-like creature roaming around. 

It was not the first time he did snooped around posing as some animal [4]. Despite the lack of free-roaming animals, said snooping techniques were working out quite well for him. He took pride in his brilliant idea to stay close to the ground. No one had called out his presence yet. 

Seeing that the coast is clear, he lowered his body and scented the air. He blinked and flicked his tongue again, for a good measure. The coast was _generally_ clear, but someone nearby was lingering somewhat nearby. 

It piqued his interest. 

Based on his observations, the residents – angels, he believed they were called – were mostly busy creatures, always on their toes and dangerously edging to their wit's end. They work round the clock. High with zeal and overflowing Love, the angels run from one end of the realm to the other. Their arms were full of assorted cargo - rolls of parchment, boxes, cylindrical tubes and whatnot - as they zoom past one another in haste (never forgetting their greetings and pleasantries as they zip along). Those who weren't zipping along looked like they were doing training exercises, or were into producing celestial harmonies. 

Very rarely, but undeniably true, did he spot angels revel in inactivity or hesitate in confusion. 

Although the presence lingered, it didn't seem to stay completely still. He slithered toward this angel. He used his tongue's ability to detect heat signatures as a guide. He was careful not to pass through areas with dried leaves. No one wants to alert prey during a hunt after all. Alright, perhaps 'hunt' was not the appropriate term. Would 'lurk' serve as a satisfying substitute? 

He drew closer still, the humming becoming more audible now. The angel had pure white wings, the most well-groomed pair he had ever seen. Ropes of auburn locks reached halfway the angel's back, silk and possibly as soft as cotton. 

He slithered to a new position to get a better look at this anomaly. He saw that the angel had a thin frame, lanky arms but had a hidden well of strength he could draw from, judging from the sacks of soil and fertilizer nearby. He could see joy in those amber eyes as he worked. He felt bile rise up at the thought, but his stomach settled once he caught glimpses of Pride from time to time. Pulling a weed here, pruning a twig there, the angel was fastidiously caring for each plant. 

"There is really something missing in those songs," the angel mused aloud as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "It's on the tip of my tongue... Hopefully it gets sorted out by the next session." 

"Meaning...emotionssss, perhapssss?" 

The angel paused and grabbed his chin to think. Meaning...as in reason? Of course, meaning was present in both the act of singing and the songs themselves. They were meant to glorify and please God. That was clear, but emotions... 

"Emotions?" The angel found himself asking. It was a foreign word after all. "What are emotions?" 

The serpent was momentarily baffled and drew closer as after snapping out of it. Mortals were beings full of emotion, with varying ranges. He was not prepared on how to explain something that was something he himself doesn't feel but was repeatedly exposed to. He had not planned on speaking to the angel in the first place. 

He had not spoken to any angel since materializing into this realm, period. But, this could prove to be an educational experience. 

Angels haven't been taught 'Stranger Danger' lessons, it seems. 

"Yessss, emotionssss..." The serpent took his time to formulate a comprehensive definition. "Another word for it is 'feelingssss', your most bassssic, innate ability to desssscribe one'ssss intangible sssstate. I'm ssssure you have ekssssperienssssed varioussss formsss of hapinessss...sssadnesssss...digusssst _...pain, terror,_ amongsssst other thingssss." 

He loved pain and terror, but despair tops it all. The angel is but a child – perhaps all angels are all but children –, it would be deliciously atrociously cruel to subject him to despair. 

Silence hung in the air as the gears in the angel's mind began to turn. The serpent was not sure if his explanation was enough, but he wasn't up for elaborating on it and just enjoyed the sight of an angel _stuck in actual thought._ The angels milling around the place only had specific orders or uncontrollable gushing in their minds at all hours of the day. 

"I think I get what you mean." The angel said after a while. "The choir and instrumentalists are all about the technicalities of the craft. No one has really thought of putting, what d'you call them?, Emotions into the mix. Thanks for that, we'll try that out next session." 

"My pleasssure," the serpent grinned with an unusually full set of sharp and glistening very pale green teeth (for snake standards). 

The angel went back to gardening and then silently watched him. The serpent noted that the lack of concern for his small tweak of a snake's biology meant that angels weren't schooled with the approved versions of the Creation Notes. 

"What an outstanding place you've cultivated here." 

"Thanks, not to toot my own horn, it's the handiwork of yours truly." The angel placed the trowel on the ground and raised his hands and arms. "From the design of the plants to the placement of part paraphernalia." 

"Impresssssive," the serpent commented as he nodded. He had to admit the angel was good with his hands _and_ had style. 

"I'm not officially part of the Plant Life Research Division, since I am not particularly interested in mumbo-jumbo specifics they work on. But, they do let me have samples of those I had a hand with aesthetic appearances, so it's all good." 

"Interessssting," the serpent replied. This realm was more organized than he initially thought. "What divissssion do you belong in, then?" 

The angel put down his arms and picked up the trowel with a big sigh. He kept silent as he stacked on the fertilizer on the Begonia he was tending to. The serpent patiently waited. Good things (in this case, information) come to those who wait. 

"I... don't belong to a particular division." The angel admitted, trying to make his tone nonchalant as possible. "Most angels, when they're born, go straight to a department they were they believe they are needed in. They fit just right in. An angel with a good singing voice goes to the Choir, one with a knack for secretarial duties or has unbridled due curiosity gets into one of the Research Divisions, and the athletic types get into Training Camps." 

The serpent flicked his tongue. Judging from the angel's tone, seeds of despair had been planted a long time before and were just starting to sprout. Perhaps angels aren't as child-like as he had initially assumed. 

"Then there are those like me who can't seem to find that one place to settle in… a place to truly belong." 

The angel bowed his head and shook it slowly before chuckling at the cool sensation of the serpent slithering up his back and wrapping around his arm. The angel took it as a comforting gesture. 

"Well, I'll find it sooner or later. Nothing to worry about, for sure. The great Creator has plans for all of us after all. Thanks for the little hug there, buddy." 

The serpent was generally disgusted by the angel's assumptions. He would never commit vile, pesky actions such as show affection or provide comfort. He had merely tried to leech those negative emotions from the angel, as he hadn't had a decent meal in ages. He loosened his grip onto the arm after realizing he wasn't getting any nutrition off the angel. What an utter waste of time and effort. He was about to slither away when the angel stood up. 

"It's about time to get you back into the Animal Research Division." The angel smoothed his fingers on the serpent's body. "I didn't knowsnakes could talk...or have little hats on them." 

The serpent decided not to utter another word and to let the angel take him to where _v_ er it was he was going to be taken to. 

"Hello there!" The angel greeted a fellow angel stationed at the Animal Research Division building entrance. "I have brought a runaway snake. Little bugger must have slipped past you." 

The serpent was brought up to the attending angel's face. The attending staff raised an eyebrow. There were no reports of a runaway subjects, as far as he knew. 

"Ah, yes, hello there. I'm sorry to inform you, but we don't have any runaways today..." The attending angel voiced as he hesitantly took the black serpent from the other's arm. 

"Are you sure?" The brunet inquired, confusion painted on his face. 

The serpent softly hissed. 

"Oh, yes, now that you mention it, one of the staff was looking for this little guy." The attending angel replied with a smile, a memory suddenly surfacing in his mind. "Thank you for the help. Good day!" 

"Good day to you too!" The angel made his way back into the park for he still had some more plants to tend too. 

"How did I miss that report from earlier?" The attending angel asked himself as he shook his head for his clumsy forgetfulness. "Let's get you home, you mischievous runaway. _"_

The serpent was brought to the Reptile Section where confused staff members merrily received him from the attendant. He snuck off a few minutes later, bringing along the confusion with him. 

He was mischievous alright, but they didn't know up to what extent. If he were considered mischievous _now,_ how much more when he _finally_ gets things started? He couldn't wait. 

She _was_ right. There was so much fun to be had. 

 

* * *

 

**134X**

 

Life in the monastery was simple and structured. There was time for everything that one would ever hope for in a modest and noble life. There was time for prayer, time for reading, time for charity, time for eating, time for sleep, and time for reflection. There was also time for learning, if one were a student resident, and time for getting healed (if one were ill - in spirit, or in form, or both). 

Brother Zira was seen tending to the ill in the medical ward the morning after. It wasn't his turn to do so yet there he was, cleaning the bed sores of one elderly patient on his right and wiping off the sweat of the patient to his left. He had also taken care of most of the menial tasks around the monastery before the sun had risen. His most cherished reading time was also given up for tending the communal garden. 

The brothers of the Order found Brother Zira's boundless energy and compassion deeply moving and strived to be more like him. That day was particularly inspiring. The thought of something wrong going on with their pious brother never crossed their minds. 

They had welcomed him in their humble Order only a few years back, yet he stood to become such a promising role model. His conduct and devotion rivaled the eldest of their Brothers in faith. No, one can take a step further and say Brother Zira's conduct and devotion rivaled even saints [5]. It seemed unthinkable how a lay person, with questionable origins (one might add, if they spent time dissecting the story Brother Zira told them upon entering their humble home), could advocate their _whole being_ to the Lord. They held him in high regard – the abbot would even indulge the good fellow's request to use the library beyond normal waking hours. 

This came as a relief to Brother Zira who was mostly uncomfortable feigning the motions of going to sleep. He had mostly forgotten the details of what it was like inside a monastery until his first day. There was the bare minimum of privacy inside the sleeping area where there were only woven screens to act as barriers in the two of the four sides of an imaginary rectangle. 

That very evening, after everyone had lain in their beds in their shared sleeping area, Brother Zira used this privilege to sneak into the monastery library. He could now squeeze in some time for reflection in his usual time for additional reading. It wasn't planned, but the need to do so hit him at the sight of perfectly good parchment gone to waste. He took the piece of parchment into his hands and inspected it the same fashion one would inspect freshly caught fish in the marketplace - with some thorough scrutiny and just prodding. The inkblot was big enough to blur the surrounding words, but was, thankfully, not big enough to render the lower half of the page unusable. He also sighed in relief, with a hand on his chest and a smile on his fact, upon seeing no sign of the inkblot bleeding into the documents beneath where the page had lain. 

As an outstanding gentleman who knew his way around parchment and manuscripts, he wanted to give himself a good whack. A good hard slap on the cheek would do. 

He seated himself onto the stool, folded the blotted page in half, and creased the area where the fold was. He mumbled a soft apology to it, gently let his hand glide over the slight roughness of the page, and replaced parchment on the table and took to looking at his hand. Was the apology enough? Should he do it? Should he slap himself to give the good parchment some justice? 

As he contemplated it, he spotted the Juniper branch on his work desk. He took one of the berries and began to fondly roll it in between his fingertips. 

 _"Listen,_ _Aziraphale, I'm not mad at you..._

_"Don't tell me you've put your money_ _on that branch?_

_"See you around, angel. Ciao."_

The demon's voice echoed in his mind. If he were to be completely honest, he would have wanted to hear the demon's laughter too. It _had_ been a while... Oh, and getting the demon to take off those blasted darkened spectacles indoors, with only the two of them, would have been even better, if he were to be greedy with requests. No piece of jewellery could match those amber eyes, in his opinion. It was really such a pity to have them hidden all the time. 

His cheeks flushed at the turn his thoughts had taken. Maybe he did need that slap on the cheek. He placed the berry on the table, near the branch it came from. There was a troubled expression painted on his face. 

Why did he feel relieved knowing that Crowley wasn't mad at him? Which part made him feel relief, the fact that the demon didn't think much of his disappearing act in Bologna? The implication that he was forgiven for running away three times, upon eye contact and facial recognition, for no apparent reason? Or maybe the fact that their next meeting wouldn't be so stifling or awkward anymore? 

Alright, the answer would obviously be 'all of the above'. No, he had been beating around a different bush for a while now. The heart of the matter lied in the way he conducts himself around Crowley. 

What happened to the years of discipline he subjected himself to? Setting aside the fact that  he was under orders, wasn't this journey about reminding himself of his purpose on this earth? Wasn't The Arrangement meant to serve as a convenient safety net whenever either party was inconvenienced - something that would maintain the balance of Good and Evil? Maintaining this delicate balance requires serious consideration, professional and objective. 

They had been co-existing on this planet since its Creation. Crowley had been a familiar face, someone who wouldn't mind sharing a cup of tea or a slightly fanciful dinner as he would chatter about anything and everything. Meeting with the demon was a steady occurrence in his life. He acted as some sort of an anchor weighing him down and keeping him afloat against the crashing waves of time and hardship.

The Serpent of Eden was a source of comfort, a very much welcome existence in his life. As an angel, every fiber of his being should be shouting that it shouldn't be so. The fact that it didn't scared him. He tried to stay away, tried to do what any proper angel would do whenever the 'fight' option was not available.

And yet, he had been found again. He wondered if Crowley had some internal compass that readily  shows the demon where to find him. Upon briefly meeting the demon's gaze that very first time in decades had  him running like a gazelle being chased by a lion or any wild cat out to get the poor herbivore. Embarrassingly so, the urge to run was more likely due to his desire to apologize and come clean, rather than disgust or displeasure. 

He held his head in his palms as he let his elbow rest on the table. He could feel the heat return to his cheeks as secondhand embarrassment hit his senses as he remembered his past self unsuccessfully 'smote' the demon with a Juniper branch. 

The angel will simply have to try harder to keep in touch with his disciplined self when dealing with the demon Crowley next time. 

He'll start first thing in the morning by disposing that Juniper branch (that brought him so much shame). 

\- - - - - - - - - 

"Damn it!" Crowley swore as he none-too-gently scratched the itch on his red-speckled forearm. "I’ll never hear the end of it if he finds out!" 

"Yer ok, bossman?" One of the store attendants inquired after knocking three times on the door to his boss's room. 

"Get your ass back out there!" 

"Yessir!" 

Crowley hissed and continued scratching. 

Apparently, the Juniper branch _did_ have an effect on him (and presumably, on his kind as well). By morning the next day, Crowley's forearms had a break out of _rashes,_ and they itched... badly. He had dealt with Juniper (the dried and crushed variety) before as it was part of his cover's job description, but there was nothing particular to take note of in those encounters with said spice. 

Was it effective because the whole package (branch, leaves and berries) were fresh or because an angel was on the other side of the stick? 

While it would be helpful to run some experiments with it, Crowley didn't want Aziraphale catching wind of anything regarding this thing he dubbed as "the Juniper Incident". He got a laugh out of Aziraphale flailing that branch around and got to see the angel embarrassed to boot. It will be remembered as an interesting memory _without the unexpected side effect_ s. On the bright side, the rashes were localized in the areas that the branch made contact with his skin and didn't spread elsewhere. The itching and the spots were completely gone after three days. 

He did make a mental note about including a fair warning regarding coming into contact with Juniper, in general. 

During the infliction of the rash, the demon decided to keep his distance. He planned to do so since he was able to confirm that their acceptable and appropriate distance was one of the reasons the angel left in the first place. The rash only made him even more cautious about it. 

During this time, he spent his days making connections with fellow merchants and establishing his position in that sweet spot between high- and mid-level echelons. One would never want to be too high up where one can get hated on all too easily or too low where one's opinion can be dismissed just as much. 

He was also making connections with the monastery Aziraphale was in. The monks seemed to be happy with the quality of his products and of his procurement of the ale and wine they were producing. He made sure to act "religious' in their presence (a donation here, a small act of charity there - nothing that can't be offsetted by planting Doubt into a novitiate's mind or causing some inconvenience to a rival spice merchant). 

Laying down groundwork early and letting roots dig deep made operations run more smoothly after all. What usually took a year for a human being to accomplish, Crowley took a third of the time to accomplish. It did involve little to no sleep and working on weekends, but that wasn't much of a big deal since he was originally designed to be some hard worker after all. 

It was about time to reap the rewards of his hard work. 

* * *

 

"'Tis sad to bid thee farewell, Brother. We wish upon thee good tidings. May God bless you on this journey ahead of you." Brother Emil said, a little teary-eyed, as he held onto one of the leaving monk's hands. 

"Yes, 'tis indeed sad to be apart from ye all." The former Brother James covered Brother Emil's hands with his free one and comfortingly rubbed his thumb over them. "While our paths may have started diverging, I believe our hearts remain one. I thank ye all for all the years ye have taken care of me as we serve our brothers and sisters in Christ." 

The former Brother James surveyed the faces of his brethren and took in their sad smiles. Ah, how loved was he! 

"I needeth better myself, in mind and in spirit. There is much to learn, and thus seeketh those answers meself, I shall!" 

"Brother, if thou hast found what thou seeks and finds it in thy heart to return. We shall welcome thee with open arms." The abbot calmly reminded.

The former Brother James smiled and nodded earnestly, tears starting to form at the edges of his eyes. Some took him into an embrace, most simply wished him luck and happiness. 

"Thank you and farewell." The former Brother James said before he turned towards the exit and set off. He was truly blessed with such good people in his life. He had forsaken his personal belongings when he was ordained and so he left with only the clothes on his back, a bible and a rosary that hung on his hip. 

The brethren watched their former brother make his way out of the monastery grounds before they closed the door and broke up to attend to their assigned tasks. 

Brother Zira was making his way to the medical wing when he heard the abbot sigh. 

"I find these recent events quite worrisome. Could this be a sign from the Heavenly Father?" The abbot confided in the younger (looking) monk in a low voice. "Two out of five novitiates remain in our walls. Three brothers hath left these walls, four seeing as Brother James hath left as well. All departures hath happened in less than half a year's time. Doth Brother Zira share the same sentiment?" 

Both Brother Zira and the abbot had stopped walking after the question left the abbot's lips. Brother Zira's brow furrowed in thought. It didn't really occur to him how unnatural these departures had been. He had a left a monastic order before and he figured that humans' fickle disposition always had something to do with it. Worldly desire _s are_ worldly desires after all; they can't be enjoyed elsewhere. 

And as far as he was concerned, Crowley had been behaving himself. He had not seen the demon for months, in the sense of having meetings that involved conversation. He did get a glance of the demon here and there when he was out, distributing the trenchers to the poor or when the demon would swing by for business purposes. The abbot seemed to take a liking to the demon, saying the spice wares were 'of quality and at a discount' and that the man himself was 'a kind soul' [6]. Nothing seemed to be amiss on his end, meaning the non-interference rule hadn't been broken. 

That was _unles_ s he would take this case of increasing monk departures into consideration. It made sense. It seemed a very demon thing to do. But was it a very _Crowl_ e _y_ thing to do? 

"I take it from thy expression that thou dost," the abbot mused aloud. 

"Oh, yes." Brother Zira said as he snapped out of his thoughts. "The situation is rather troubling, but worry not! It is not so troubling to be a cause for distress. I believe our former brothers are still on the path towards God." 

Brother Zira's expression softened and turned into a reassuring one. It _must_ have been a reassuring smile as he could see the abbot smile as well. It was a relief, really, he was not very good at displaying the correct expressions whenever he was having conflicting thoughts. Crowley had pointed that out on multiple occasions; that time in Pompeii came into mind... He wasn't sure if it was his facial expression or the jets of molten rock that made the people he was reassuring look at him in disbelief. Crowley noted it was the former. 

"If 'tis was Brother Zira thinks, so shall I." 

The abbot nodded solemnly and walked off to his office to attend to his other duties. Brother Zira watched him walk off before brisk walking to the infirmary. Oh Crowley, he'd need to have a word with that silly old serpent. 

* * *

 

The moon hung relatively high up in the night sky. There was not a cloud in sight. The town bathed in its gentle light. Its luminescence generously spilled into the monastery library's interior and illuminated the colorful patchwork of stained glass and an angel pacing to and fro along the bay windows. 

Said angel had one hand cupping his chin and the other cupping his elbow as he paced the length of the room. He was feeling rather troubled regarding getting in contact with the demon. 

The specifics on the demon's current location didn't trouble him. He knew where Crowley's spice shop was. He had seen it whenever he was in town to do Trencher Duty or off to some errand to the town's church. He wasn't troubled by the _act_ of seeing the demon again. Goodness, no, their last encounter - in that very room - smoothed out whatever wrinkles were there regarding the past fewdecades. 

Avoiding having to go through the four W's and one H, Aziraphale decided on focusing on that one H - the How. 

He very recently had a turn in all duties which required going out to town. To request having another turn when the next opportunity presents itself will draw suspicion and worry. Suspicion, since all of the monastery populace's needs were accounted for at the time, and worry due to a good number of brothers leaving, one after the other, in the course of less than half a year. 

He also couldn't enlist the help of a pigeon, a dove, a sparrow, or any type of fowl for that matter, to help him send a message to the demon. It would need some sort of Heavenly guidance for the messenger to go where it needed to go, and Gabriel had made it perfectly clear that he had gone way over his monthly quota of miracles in his most recent note. 

The angel clicked his tongue. How could they have been so daft? Neither brought up the topic of communication suited for emergencies. Scratch that, neither brought up the brilliant idea of how they were to communicate, period. 

They were fools. He was a fool. People thought of him as smart, yet he completely misses this detail? 

"Why the long face, angel?" came the sound of a very familiar voice from behind the angel. "Something the matter? Was it because you missed me? If I-" 

"Crowley, dear boy! I was thinking about you," Aziraphale spun around and straightened both his posture and his garb. Having been snapped out of his thoughts a tad bit abruptly made him reply to the bits and pieces he managed to pick up. "Actually... Er, yes." 

Crowley was sitting on the stone window ledge with one foot touching the floor and the other up on the window, half bent. He had his darkened spectacles on and they reflected the visage of the angel. There was a beat of silence between them. In that beat, Crowley turned his head away and willed away the obnoxious smile on his face. It was meant to be simple jest, to poke fun at the straight-laced angel. He wasn't aware that he failed wiping away all traces of it when he faced the angel's way again. 

It was in that beat where Aziraphale finally connected the words to their meaning as a whole and analyzed the clumsy answer he gave. It was his turn to will away something he didn't intend to do. He kept the blush creeping up his cheeks at bay, letting them settle on the tips of his ears. He felt the desperate desire to elaborate... but decided that it would be a much better idea to pretend that nothing that was said was worth getting embarrassed about. If he can learn from humans, then he could learn from the demon just as well. 

... Not that learning from demons was advisable, or was a good idea. He didn't mean to insinuate - 

_'Quit flapping your gums and get to the point already, angel!'_

Ah, even his mind wanted him to shut up and face the situation without dawdling. It was smart to conjure Crowley's voice for the line. It worked like a charm, and look, the redness on the tip of his ears subsided. 

"That was a rather confusing reply, wouldn't you say so dear boy? And for that, I do apologize. I'd also like to clarify my answer. _"_ Aziraphale began and waited for the other's input. 

All traces of Crowley's smile disappeared. He decided to straighten his posture just a tiny bit. He waited for the angel to continue. 

"Fire away," said the demon when he realized that the angel was waiting for some cue from him. 

"Right," the angel began as he drew close to the window. "We never discussed how we were to communicate this time around, and well, I was trying to find a way to do so without looking suspicious. I have a matter I wanted to discuss with you. That was what I meant when I said I was thinking of you." 

Crowley blinked. He didn't need to, but it felt like the right reaction to this new information. 

"You could have easily gone to -" 

"I've used up all the chances to go to town before the issue presented itself." 

The demon thought for a second when a memory popped up. 

"Didn't you use a pigeon to send messages some time -" 

"That required some, how do I say this _, active guiding_ for it to work. Pigeons remember where they come from and navigate on their own to get back, not the other wayaround. We did it the other way around the first time." 

"Still, shouldn't that have -" 

"Not an option!" 

The demon's eyes shot wide open and felt his body lean back at the sudden outburst. Irritation rose up from within him. 

"Would you _please_ stop cutting me off? I thought angels were all for manners and whatnot." Crowley scowled. "Look what've you done. You made me say 'please'. Don't you feel the least bit guilty?" 

 _Finally,_ he got a few sentences in without getting cut off abruptly. 

"Sorry, didn't mean for it to come out the way it did." The angel sheepishly laughed then sighed defeatedly, his shoulders slumping. "Gabriel made it a point that I can't use any miracles for a while." 

"So, your point is, not being able to contact this big bad demon got your knickers in a twist?" Crowley teased, using the most condescending tone he could muster, with a smile making its way back onto his face. "Don't tell me that, without any viable options, you _prayed_ to the Almighty and let Her guide me, a demon (of all the things you could ask for!), to her devoted, oh so pious, Principality. What a naughty little thing you've become." 

"Don't use your salacious metaphors on me, you wily old serpent!" The angel spat out in exasperation, face turning scarlet. "Since you insist on using colorful idioms, I'll humor you and use some of my own." 

"By all means," Crowley did a small bow with the appropriate hand gestures for it. He got an irritated huff for that, and he returned it with a chuckle. 

"Before that, I'll have you know I have done nothing of the sort!" The angel swiftly snatched the darkened spectacles from the demon's face. 

"Hey! Give that back!" Crowley lunged at him, trying to swipe his spectacles from the angel's grubby hands. 

"No can do," the angel taunted and settled on the window ledge after the demon gave up on the spectacles for the moment by sitting back down. 

The angel took in the sight of those fierce ambers. He could finally get to see them after all this time. He fidgeted, looking around as his hands played with the spectacles, hoping _no one_ was watching. Otherwise, he'd be in big trouble and it worried him. "What I was hung up on was the fact that you've played the role of Pied Piper and led those poor monks out of the monastery up to some a garden path that's definitely full of lies." 

"None of them are children, angel." 

"You're missing the point, dear." 

"No, you're forgetting what my job entails." Crowley crossed his arms. "You're babying them too much. And I thought you weren't very happy with organized religion as a whole?" 

Aziraphale grumbled something about 'not being biased' and 'humans are free to do what they want as long as they fulfil the Lord's wishes one way or another'. He felt a tinge of annoyance [7] at the way the demon completely ignored his attempt at colorful idioms. No, he definitely _didn't feel challenged_ by that sarcastic tone or bow _._

Crowley cupped a hand around his ear and mouthed, "Care to run that by me again?" To this, the angel scoffed and crossed his own arms. The demon clicked his tongue and gave in. 

"Besides, they came to me with questions," continued the demon, his hands crawling into the pockets of his outfit. "In fact, I gave them an honest opinion. No tunes, no music, just plain old honesty. I think I deserve a pat on the back from you." 

"Yes, and your _honesty_ either borders on or outright tramples straight towards blasphemy like a bull in a store brimming with china." 

"Big deal, those monks are adults. They are perfectly capable of exercising their free will to the fullest, in any way they please. _Your_ lot came up with the whole testing thing to begin with. I'm just doing the job your people feel iffy about." 

"Fine, but what about the Arrangement?" Aziraphale brought up after thinking of a comeback. "Couldn't your meddling be considered a violation to our 'non-interference' rule?" 

Crowley slapped his forehead and let his fingers card through his hair. Was the angel this forgetful? 

"Didn't we agree that your purview is mostly limited whenever you play safe by joining a monastic order? You may have more freedom compared to when you with the Benedictines, but technically, your influence would only reach the villages around the area - not the town itself since it's a way off." Crowley took this opportunity to swipe the spectacles back from the angel's unsuspecting hands. "You're a hermit, angel. You've secluded yourself in this _fine_ prison and I even do you a favor of ceasing any 'evil' activity whenever you visit town." 

"That's no favor," the angel reacted a tad testily but his spike of anger quickly deflated. "Sorry, I must've gotten carried away.” 

The angel looked down, avoiding Crowley's gaze, and began scratching the back of his hand with his forefinger. Ah, the guilt was back. 

Crowley repositioned his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. He took that apology as a win. 

"Anywho, what brings you back here?" Aziraphale asked as he perked back up. 

"Only a couple of seconds of remorse after accusing me of breaking the Arrangement?" 

"I apologized, didn't I? What more do you want? A pat on the back? Don't be _greedy_ , foul demon." 

"All part of the job. Ooh, you wound me, angel." The demon clutched at his heart to emphasize his point. 

"Serves you right." 

"Then, I suppose you wouldn't want these first edition manuscripts of the 'Comedia' I've got with me tonight." 

The demon brought out three manuscripts and practically dangled them in front of a truly awed angel. "Such a waste, I even got them _signed_. I suppose I'll have to come back another time." 

Crowley returned the manuscripts to whatever dimension he pulled them out from and positioned himself on the window, ready to make his exit. He felt a hand firmly gripping his shoulder. 

"Thought so," the demon smirked and turned around. 

He sauntered to the angel's work table and offered the owner a seat. 

"Name your price." The angel stated after settling down on his seat. 

"Quick with the negotiations, aren't we angel?" The demon commented and brought the manuscripts out. "Did it ever cross _y_ our mind that these could be gifts?" 

"Oh please, Crowley, I know what gifts are." The angel scoffed and crossed both his arms and legs. "You aren't giving those for free. You see this as a 'favor' of sorts. _You_ want something from me." 

"So you're not denying feeling Tempted?" 

The angel said nothing and had displeasure written all over his face, despite his obvious attempts to hide said displeasure. His poker face wasn't much of a poker face against someone who had been watching him for millennia. That _someone_ bit his inner cheek to keep a chuckle from spilling out.

"Bold, aren't you?"

The angel raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. He was not going to give in that easily.

"Oh don't give me that look. You know that I'm not getting you involved in something malicious." 

The eyebrow remained raised. "I'll be the judge of that." 

Crowley rolled his eyes and placed the manuscripts on the table. He swatted the impatient angel's hands when they got too close. They haven't closed the deal yet. 

"You know..." The demon started. "May Fair day is coming up." 

"Yes, that's true. And?" Impatience coated those words and Crowley could practically taste it in the air. 

"I was wondering if you're interested on taking it easy on that day? Care to grab some good lunch or something along those lines?" 

Aziraphale's brow settled down and moved from an expression of utter amazement to that of confusion. 

"Crowley, my dear, you do understand that I am currently a monk, don't you?" 

"Why yes, of course. I crawled my way up a monastery window after all." 

"Very well then, do the words 'obedience', 'poverty _'_ and -" 

"Oh shut up, angel! Don't baby me the same way you do your monk friends. I know what I'm asking." The demon said in the most long-suffering tone he could. "All I'm asking is you drop your cover for a few hours, then you can get these manuscripts out of my hands and suit right back up afterwards. Not a bad deal, eh?" 

The angel glanced at the manuscripts and looked absolutely wretched. It would take only a single push in the right direction for the angel to raise a white flag. 

"But... Even if I wanted to go, I've exhausted all -" 

"I'll take care of it. You don't have to worry about a thing." The demon went behind him and whispered into his ear. He pocketed the spectacles in one swift motion. "So do we have a deal?" 

The angel turned his head to find those serpentine eyes gazing at him as if he were prey, which wasn't so far from the truth. He gulped and broke eye contact. He wasn't terrified of those eyes; he was afraid his mouth would utter some nonsense in response to the alluring gaze. 

"If you'll take care of it, then fine, we have a deal." The angel raised his hand and the demon eagerly shook it. 

"Pleasssure doing business with you." 

"The hiss is coming out." The angel commented knowingly with a chuckle and turned to slide the manuscripts toward him. 

"See you in two weeks' time." Crowley patted the angel's shoulder before heading to the window. 

"Wait," the angel's face scrunched up as he read the dedication on one of the manuscripts. "These are dedicated to _Virgil_!" 

The demon clicked his tongue. He thought he would have gotten away before the angel found out. 

"And, aren't there supposed to be only two signatures? One of them was published posthumously." Aziraphale asked as he flipped open the other manuscripts. 

"I asked him to dedicate them to you, but it seems that he was out of it when he signed them [8]." The demon explained as quick as he can and slid down the window _._ "Better get going now. Have a pleasant evening!" 

The angel ran to the window, eager to get answers. 

"And the extra signature?" He called out and saw the demon land on the soles of his feet, which promptly began to hurt. 

"Never said I got them over on this side!" 

Aziraphale thought about it for a moment and by the time he had formulated another question, Crowley was already sprinting out of the monastery grounds. 

He shrugged and decided he could always ask the serpent another time. He had some reading to do after all _._

* * *

 

 **[1]** "Dear guest, please keep in mind these House Rules as thou enjoy thy stay 'ere. First is to keep from harming the residents of the realm, and second is to persevere in diverting thy anger into other activities."

 

"... Is that all?"

 

"Yes, that is all." [up]

 

 **[2]** He most certainly _did not_ trespass _each_ and _every_ unit to confirm this theory. Statistically speaking, one would only need roughly 400 respondents (in this case, residential units) to make a fairly accurate estimate. No, he most definitely _did not_ break into 400 residential units. Why would he? It wasn't as if he were curious or had all the time in the world. [up]

 

 **[3]** He would go ghastly pale – flabbergasted, mostly in shock, if you so much as imply that he was scouting those abandoned pristine units for him to use as his secret base. [up]

 **[4]** Most forms used for reconnaissance work were… borrowed. While the text remained incomprehensible, the drawings were easy to remember. He tried transforming into them too. You couldn't blame him; it laid there right before his very eyes and she didn't comment on it after seeing him transform. A true candidate for the first ever Copyright Infringement (or Art Theft, admittedly a peculiar one; your pick) in the history of this particular Universe. [up]

 

[5] **_One particularly fine day for gardening_**...

 **Brother James** : Brother Zira, thou is an inspiration to all of us here in the Order. 

 **Brother Zira** _: /stops raking and_ smiles/ Oh why, thank you. I… I am honored for you to have such a high opinion of me. 

 **Brother Emil** : _/prunes misbehaving branches/_ 'Tis the truth, Brother Zira. We believe thou art on thy way to becoming the first living saint! 

 **Brother Zira** : _/smile drops but picks it up_ again/ Dearest brothers, surely you jest. I am deeply touched that - 

 **Brother James** : Brother Zira, we are most serious. Thou hast done over and beyond that is humanly possible to help our brothers and sisters in need on several occasions _._ We are thinking of - 

 **Brothe** r **Zira** : _/in cold sweat/_ Brothers, say no more. Please reconsider! _/eyes darting/_ This is blasphemy! 

 **Brother Emil** : We 'ave thought this through and - 

 **Brother Zira** _: /is thinking of the strongly worded note from Gabriel on its way to him/_ Oh, that does it _!/places his religious brothers into suspended animation and a highly 'accepting state'/_ This conversation never happened. Neither of you thought it is a good idea to appeal for my beatification or to whatever it is you do to make people into saints. Do I make myself clear? 

 **Brothers James and Emil** : _/nods/_

 **Brother Zira** _: /smiles/_ Splendid! _/smile drops and he massages his temples/_ Now then, that makes six of them, I hope the other twelve don't get these _crazy_ ideas _. /straightens his posture and claps hands to undo the suspended animation/_

 **Brother James** **_:_ ** _/blinks/ W_ hat were we talking about again? 

 **Broth** er **Zira** : Oh, we're lacking some cloves, cumin and cardamom in the pantry and Brother Emil will be picking on the morrow _w. /pats Brother Emil's shoulder/_

 **Brother Emil** : Oh, yes. I shall be glad to do so. [up]

 **[6]** Aziraphale took great pride in noticing that tiny spark of goodness within the demon and had a habit of reminding the demon of it. He would always get a snarl and a " _shut up, angel!"_ in return, but he would always find no bite in those words which made all the more endearing. Hearing others, _very_ few and far in between, make the same observation made him _beam_ (glow, to those who were blessed with either very keen observation skills or a sense for the occult ethereal) with delight. [up]

 **[7]** There are words whose essence are lost when translate away from their parent language. The term 'Annoyance' is a loose translation pertaining to "the feeling of being a teensy bit angry at someone for a slight but would forgive them at some point in time but definitely at that moment". The word being described is 'Tampo' from this humble author's native tongue (Filipino). [up] 

 **[8]** It was true. Crowley asked Dante to dedicate the manuscript copies to Aziraphale. He wasn't quite sure why the manuscripts ended up being dedicated to Virgil. _W_ as it because he made a joke about dedicating it to "Virgin Aziraphale' or because he was the first one to show him kindness and was someone mistaken to be Virgil? Crowley would never know since he wouldn't want to risk getting caught by any of the other demons working there. It would hurt his reputation. [up]

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chap is basically the prompt/idea that started it all. I somewhat obsessively built up on it and that's how we ended up here. It looks like my guess of this fic having 8 chapters was spot on.
> 
> If it's not too much, please send some feedback! I'd like to know what you think about the fic in general, and if there are parts that you find interesting/confusing, etc.
> 
> Embarrassingly, I feel a tad bit lonely since I'm beginning to understand how niche this fic is. ^^;;
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


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